


Retrace

by pomegrenadier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Crew as Family, Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Torture, Male-Female Friendship, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mostly Fake Amnesia, Mostly Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Revan Remembers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Jedi weren't the only ones to meddle with her mind. She knows who she is, but not how she fell. She remembers attacking the Republic, but not why. The answers are out there—if she can find them. Good thing Darth Revan doesn't give up easily. An AU take on KotOR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Convergence

_In which timelines shift, the Force protests, an elevator shaft is grievously misused, and Revan sees double._

**o.O.o**

In the raw instant before the blast hits, Revan gathers her power and _jumps_. The shockwave from the explosion not two meters from where she was standing slams into her back, sends her cannoning into the last survivor of the Jedi task force sent to kill her. The Jedi's lightsaber is knocked from her hand and goes spinning away—and then it's a mad rush of air and sound and fire as the bridge of the _Crusader_ vomits atmosphere into the void of space.

Revan gives a sharp Force push to propel herself away from the gaping hole in the hull. One of the navigators' stations rears up before her. She seizes the armrest, and the Jedi—Bastila Shan, so-called Hope of the Republic—manages to cling to Revan's robe.

The howling chokes off as the emergency O2 shields activate, and the _Crusader_ 's flagging life support system frantically pumps air back onto the bridge. Revan lets go, twists around, kicks the Jedi away as she springs to her feet. She still has one of her lightsabers. Shan has nothing. No weapons, no allies, no Master.

"Surrender and I may show mercy," Revan says, more on principle than out of any real expectation.

Shan picks herself up, fists clenched at her sides, eyes blazing. "I'll never surrender to the likes of you," she spits out. Of course.

The ship groans and buckles as another salvo from the _Leviathan_ hammers at its port side. Revan seeks out the lives of her crew, pinpricks of light in the Force. They flicker out by the dozens as air vents from the tortured vessel. And in the distance, a hateful presence is laughing in satisfaction, watching the ship burn. Waiting for her to burn with it.

"Traitorous wretch," Revan says. "If this is how he hopes to gain command of the Sith—"

"The dark side will always consume itself!" Shan shouts over a deafening burst of laser fire.

"And you with it, it seems," she says. She flicks her wrist, and Shan is thrown to the side, pinned against a monitor bank with a mere thought. Revan activates the nav station, accesses the systems status reports even as she makes a rough count of survivors through the Force. There are less than fifty crew left alive on board. Fifty and dropping, out of an original complement of hundreds.

She will extract the cost of their lives out of Malak's miserable hide.

But first, she must find a way off the _Crusader_ before it crumbles around her. The escape pod banks were some of the first areas targeted after weapons and shields, but there are a few left intact. If she can reach them.

There's no choice but to try, really. She opens ship-wide communications. "Attention all stations," she says. "Escape pods in the aft starboard section remain operational. Make your way there and jettison immediately." Hopefully that will get everyone who is able moving in the right direction. These are her best and brightest, the most loyal of her people. She would hate to lose any more of them to Malak's treachery.

The bridge shudders, and the shimmering O2 shields flicker. Ominous. Revan turns to consider Shan as their time drains away. She is strong in the Force, perhaps even at Malak's level—or she could be, with time. Her Battle Meditation has caused far more trouble for Revan's fleet than first expected. And she has a brittleness to her, hairline fractures that, with the right pressure, might one day shatter. Excellent.

Revan gestures, and Shan is wrenched from the monitor bank to sprawl in an ungainly heap at her feet. Shan gasps, struggling to rise, a ferocious scowl on her fine-featured face.

Revan grabs the collar of her robes and hauls her upright, then starts dragging her to the turbolifts.

"Let go of me!" Shan yells, writhing and kicking ineffectually. Ah, the advantages of proper armor. The Mandalorians got that right, at least.

"Do you want to die here, Jedi?" Revan asks in mild tones. "Because that is easy enough to arrange. If, on the other hand, you'd rather live to irritate me another day, either stop struggling or start walking."

Shan digs her heels in. And slides, because her boots lack adequate traction and the floor is solid, polished durasteel. Honestly. "What will you do with me?" she says, voice shaking.

"That," says Revan, "is entirely dependent upon whether or not we survive long enough to reach an escape pod."

"You either break your prisoners or kill them if they will not break."

"True. But perhaps you should be more concerned with more immediate threats to your life. _I_ am actually starting to like you. Malak's turbolasers most certainly do not."

Shan blanches, but doesn't resist when Revan tugs her to the lift shaft and blasts the doors open with a wave of Force energy. Revan peers down—it's a long way from the command deck to the aft starboard pod bay, but thankfully it's mostly vertical.

In an effort to minimize the possibility of horrible splattering death in the event of malfunction, the repulsorlift generators are not attached to the elevator box itself. Instead, they are spaced every three floors, their influence extending far enough above to keep the lift hovering at the appropriate level, while providing redundant safeguards against falling. If a generator fails and the lift accelerates past a certain velocity, all repulsors below it will automatically activate with increasing intensity, and the lift will be brought to a safe—if somewhat jarring—halt.

"Repulsorlift cushions?" says Shan, drawing in a deep breath. She looks a bit green. Not a fan of heights, then.

"You read my mind," Revan says, smirking behind her mask.

She takes the Jedi by the hand, and together, they dive into the shaft.

They fall, the wind of their passage snapping the edges of Revan's cloak. Faster and faster, until the sensors register the danger and thirty feet below, the generator light blinks green. Revan braces herself as they smack into a billowing wall of force that slows their descent appreciably. Another cushion, and another—her teeth ache from the repeated impacts, but she isn't too worried.

Until, that is, Malak's assault takes out the _Crusader_ 's main power generators.

Life support, the O2 shields, and gravity are powered by the backup generators, but everything else shuts down. Including, incidentally, the elevators' safety measures.

Revan curses as a horrible splattering death looms in the near future. Shan, though, sweeps an arm around, shoves at the wall to propel them sideways.

They smash into the opposite wall, Revan's head smacking against an outthrust coolant pipe with a ring of metal on metal; the breath is crushed out of her by the force of the impact, and stars explode across her vision. But she reaches out, left hand tight around Shan's, right hand scrabbling desperately for purchase—

Her fingers snag on a nest of conduits. She surges the Force through her entire limb to strengthen it as her own weight, and Shan's, and their combined momentum, turn her shoulder into a block of white-hot agony.

She breathes shallowly through her teeth, ribs aching with every inhalation. Bruised, probably cracked, possibly broken. At least they're not falling anymore.

"Door," she grunts.

Below her, Shan gestures, and the door below them hisses open. Shan swings through the portal. Revan follows more slowly, clambering down the conduit line until she's close enough to make the drop. She staggers the landing, drops to her knees. Her ribs, her skull, her shoulders—she wants nothing more than to curl up here and wait for the pain to _stop_.

There's a snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting. Hers; it's red. And Shan has it. No, two—where did she get two red lightsabers when Revan lost one of them? Furthermore, why are there two Shans? It makes no sense—this will be among the most ignominious deaths of any Sith Lord in recorded history, death by traitorous apprentice and elevator shaft and ungrateful double Jedi—

She sets her jaw and sinks into the Force, feeding the fires with that pain, her fear, her fury at the one who caused all this.

Then something cool and cleansing pours down her spine, shocking her out of the half-trance—Shan's doing. Revan stares up at her through the mask and the red glow as the pain fades to a more tolerable level.

"Jedi," she croaks bitterly, shaking her head. The world swoops and weaves. She coughs, presses a hand to her chest as bones grate against each other where they should not. Definitely broken. At least there's only one Shan now.

"Yes," Shan snaps. "Now where are these escape pods on which we've pinned our final hopes?"

Revan refocuses, checks the level they're on. She lets out a surprised breath that catches somewhere between her lungs and her mouth. "They're on this deck," she says, wonderingly.

"Revan . . ."

She stands, steadies herself with another flare of the dark side, and calls her lightsaber from Shan to herself. The Jedi does not resist the pull, although she probably could have. The saber hilt thunks into her hand. Revan's eyes ache with the effort; she can practically feel the blood vessels bursting in her sclerae. But she has no time for weakness, no time at all—she sets off down the corridor without bothering to see if Shan follows. The Jedi _will_ follow. She has nowhere else to go. So Revan strides along, lighting the way in lurid crimson and black, and Shan trots after her.

Most of the escape pods are destroyed or jettisoned already. They arrive in the bay just as a squad of security officers pile into one of them, filling every available inch of space. Their mousy-haired lieutenant freezes at the sight of her. "Lord Revan?" he calls out.

"Go," she says. "Get out of here."

"Yes, my lord!"

And with a clank and a hiss and a faint rumble of the pod's engines blasting off, she and Shan are alone again.

"Come on," Revan snaps, stumbling towards the nearest pod and keying in the activation code.

"Do you honestly expect to survive out in the middle of a massive space battle?" Shan says.

Revan laughs wetly. "We have a better chance out there than in here. Now get in."

She initializes the launch sequence as Shan clambers into the escape pod. Revan is on the verge of total exhaustion—her battle with the Jedi was long and drawn-out and profoundly tiring, even when it came down to only herself and Shan; her injuries are not content to lie quiet with or without the Force; and she is furious at Malak, yes, but mostly _weary_ , because this, this has been a long time in coming and she should have expected it . . .

_Dar'vod._

Damn him.

The pod door seals, and the entire contrivance lurches before it goes spinning off into space. Revan peers out the window at her crippled flagship. The _Crusader_ dwindles into the distance, blooms of fire and debris marring its hull, and when it crumbles into pieces Revan spares a moment to lament the beautiful vessel.

There are no lives left on board by then. She is grateful. Explosive decompression is not a pleasant way to go.

She leans back in her seat, closing her eyes as her head swims again and her ship's corpse doubles and redoubles. She does not want to see more dead _Crusader_ s than there really are. Is. Are. Something.

"You're still injured."

She cracks an eye open. "How amazingly perceptive of you," she says. She coughs again, tastes copper.

Shan is watching her, wary but no longer outright afraid. "You cannot—"

The escape pod lurches, wrenches to port as _something _hits it—debris or laserfire or a whole ship, she doesn't know, she never does find out. Revan and Shan are both thrown about the madly spinning cabin.__

It occurs to her, too late, that perhaps utilizing the safety harnesses might have been a good idea.

**o.O.o**

Bastila moans as awareness returns, and with it, nausea. She is drifting in zero-g, turning gently, or perhaps the escape pod is turning around her. She has no reference points from this angle. Her head hurts.

What happened? There was . . .

Bastila gasps, remembering. Master Owyn and the others, all gone, and then Darth Revan had her, and they made it off the _Crusader_ but now—she searches the dim pod interior and finds the Sith Lord floating near what should be the floor, currently functioning as a sort of rotating wall. She reaches out with the Force. Revan's exhaustion is palpable, as is her pain.

"Good. You're awake," Revan says, words clipped and tight, as if spoken through her teeth.

Bastila grasps the back of one of the jump seats to steady herself. She stops turning. The nausea abates slightly. "What happens now?" she asks.

"Depends on who finds us first," Revan says. She reaches up, brushes back her hood, and pulls off her helmet. Bastila stares, shocked—every report she's ever heard has claimed that Revan never, _ever_ removes her mask. Beneath, her face is all hard planes and sharp angles, corpse-pale, black hair chopped brutally short. Her eyes are dull yellow, intent on the workings of the helmet—she yanks something out of its interior and holds it between thumb and forefinger, nostrils flaring in distaste. She crushes it, flicks it aside. "No reason to make it easy for them."

"Transponder?" Bastila hazards.

"Which they think I don't know about. And comms," Revan adds sourly. "Just in case."

Bastila chooses not to mention that her own comlink is still operational. "In case—ah. Because the Sith will kill you," she realizes. She almost laughs at the irony, and can't resist pushing her luck: "Your own apprentice wants you dead. That makes the Republic your only chance at survival—what does that tell you about our respective causes, then, hmm?"

"You . . . wanted to capture me alive," Revan says, incredulous. "The Jedi actually went to all that trouble not to assassinate me, but to _capture_ me? Really?" She sighs. "And here I was looking forward to a heroic last stand. My mistake."

"Heroic?" Bastila snaps. "You would call slaughtering Jedi _heroic?_ "

"Do I look interested in justifying myself to you, Padawan?"

"Not particularly," Bastila says, "although you're welcome to try, now that you can't hide behind that ridiculous mask."

"Critiquing my sartorial taste, now?"

"Oh, it's fine, if your intent is to shock and awe people with absurd melodrama."

"Maybe it is." Revan pauses, then says, "This is not the discussion I expected."

Bastila rubs her eyes. "It has been a very long day."

". . . So it has."

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by sporadic flashes of light through the viewports as the Republic and Sith fleets do their level best to destroy each other. The Force is strange, here on this battlefield—something has shifted, some vital gear has slipped. It is not painful, exactly, but it is _off_ , and it makes Bastila nervous.

"Problem?" Revan asks.

Bastila pushes herself towards the viewport, peers out into the chaos of the battle. "I don't kn—"

The wrongness in the Force surges, a riptide dragging her under. Bastila cries out at the assault on her senses—she retreats into herself in an attempt to weather it, wait it out, but there is nothing to hold onto, nothing to hide behind. The storm threatens to drown her—

Ice. Walls of black ice. In the sudden calm, Bastila can sense Revan's shock and fear and grim determination as the waves heave and roil, threatening to crush them both, barely held at bay by her mental shield. _What is this?_ the Sith demands, a tiny voice in the maelstrom.

_I don't know,_ Bastila thinks. _It's wrong, it shouldn't be—something is_ wrong—

The walls buckle, Revan's shields cracking. Bastila can hardly breathe. She steels herself, then pushes back, adding her own strength to the walls. She senses surprise, and something approaching gratitude, but cannot pay them any mind as she and Revan try to hold steady amid the convulsions tearing through the Force.

_Damn, _she hears distinctly, and a heartbeat later she knows why. She can _feel_ the oncoming wave, the worst yet, a tsunami building on itself, towering over them—it will smash them, sweep them away like so much debris.__

The dark side burns around Revan, burns like frost. Bastila recoils instinctively until her intent becomes apparent: Revan is throwing every scrap of her power into their shields. Very well. Bastila pours her own into the effort, sealing the cracks in the wall, hoping it will be enough, fearing it will not.

And then—

The wave crashes down. The Force screeches its pain. The wall is gone, obliterated—shards of ice and thought and memory rip through her and through Revan. They cling to each other, Jedi Padawan and Sith Lord, reduced to flotsam in the face of the immensity of the heaving, ravening Force.

It lasts forever. It lasts an instant.

And then it's over, and Bastila breathes again. The Force quiets like a sleeper after a nightmare, still fitful but no longer thrashing. In the searing mental silence that follows, Bastila reaches out, tentative. Revan's spirit burns small and cold and wavering. Wounded, badly, and now subjected to . . . to whatever just happened, she won't last long without help.

Bastila hesitates. She was ordered to capture Revan alive. But having seen the woman in action, having watched her scythe her way through some of the Order's best duelists—having watched her _kill Master Owyn_ —she wonders. She could do nothing. There's barely anything left to save. Then Bastila scowls, disgusted with herself. She is a Jedi, a servant of the Light and of life itself, the Living Force, and that duty comes before all others.

She nudges herself off the wall and takes hold of Revan, maneuvers the Sith towards the jump seats to lay her across them. Reorienting is a dizzying process, but Bastila focuses on a fixed point, and her discomfort fades to a background murmur. She rechecks the tides of the Force—still unstable, but settling down. Good. She sinks into the currents and calls on them to heal.

She is barely conscious of time passing—it could be minutes, or it could be long hours, or it could be no time at all, so deeply is she immersed in the Force. After everything, she has too little strength left to see to any but the worst of Revan's injuries—the repeated head trauma, the broken ribs, the punctured lung. She focuses on mending or at least ameliorating these first.

It is difficult work, but she resurfaces with a stable patient and a sense of . . . not triumph, but satisfaction. Pride, maybe, for all that she should be above such base emotions.

Also, her comlink is chittering with frantic noise.

"—stila—channels—repeat, this is—do you copy?"

She scrambles to retrieve it, nearly sobbing with relief. Voices on the comms—Jedi, her people, safety. "I'm here!" she calls out. "I—this is Padawan Shan—can anyone hear me?"

For a long moment, the static hisses and spits, unintelligible, meaningless. Then familiar voice rings out. "Bastila! This is Master Zhar. Thank goodness you're all right. Where are you? What happened?"

Bastila presses the device to her forehead, shutting her eyes. "We're in an escape pod. I can find and transmit the coordinates and transponder codes. I—I'm all that's left, Master. The others, they're—" She stops. _Focus_. "I have captured Darth Revan."

**

o.O.o

**

_tbc_


	2. Character Creation

_In which Bastila fails at interrogation and receives some bad news. The Council deliberates! Meanwhile, Revan's brain is a mess._

**o.O.o**

The medical bay of the Republic flagship RAS _Tempest_ buzzes with activity. Med-droids trundle along their rounds while nurses and doctors and trauma surgeons bury themselves to the elbows in one body after another. Zhar Lestin allows the chaos to wash over him as he meditates, awaiting Bastila's return.

The Council had scarcely dared to hope—but she did it. Against all odds, she did it. The sense of triumph, of relief that pervades the present Jedi is remarkable and heartening. Even Vrook looks happy.

Regardless. Bastila is alive, and Revan is badly wounded—no longer a threat.

Fleet Admiral Forn Dodonna has personally ordered a squadron to retrieve Bastila's escape pod, pulling them away from the mop-up of the battle with the Sith fleet. Even without Bastila's Battle Meditation, the Republic forces acquitted themselves well today. Admiral Dodonna can afford to give the Padawan what amounts to an honor guard.

However, when Bastila arrives on board the _Tempest_ , honor is clearly the last thing on her mind. Once Revan is sent off to the medics—under heavy sedation already, in addition to her injuries—Bastila is summoned to the bridge. She is weary and heartsick, every step a battle of its own, every word exchanged with a smiling Dodonna heavy with loss. Zhar is proud of her for remaining on her feet at all.

Bastila answers the admiral's questions mechanically, eyes far away, her words drawn out of her in fits and starts. When she speaks of the fallen Knights and Masters, her voice breaks; when she speaks of her flight from the _Crusader_ , of Revan's strange determination to keep her alive, her consternation and exhaustion weigh heavy upon her shoulders.

"Admiral," says Zhar, "perhaps further debriefing could be postponed until Bastila has rested? She has been through much these past few hours, and as you can see, the Sith fleet is in full retreat."

"Of course, Master Jedi," says Dodonna, with a little bow. "My apologies. Nevertheless, we thank you, Padawan Shan, for the great service you have done us this day."

"You're quite welcome," Bastila rasps.

Zhar guides her out of the hustle and bustle of the bridge, finds an unused conference room, and sits her down in one of the cushy chairs generally reserved for the admiralty. "I sense much turmoil in you, young one," he says gently. "Do you wish to speak of it?"

Bastila bites her lip, gazing fixedly at the tabletop. "Master Owyn is dead."

"A terrible loss to the Order," says Zhar, "but especially to you. I am sorry. He would be proud of what you accomplished today."

Her anger flashes in the Force like magnesium thrown into water. "Better alive and disappointed than—" She breaks off, raising her hands to her face as her eyes well up with tears. "Was all this worth it, Master Zhar?"

He sighs. "I do not know. But remember, Bastila, there is no death, there is only the Force. Daen Owyn is at peace. And he is with you, always."

Bastila is quiet for a long while as she regains control over her grief. Zhar is impressed that she manages it so quickly, though he worries she is merely suppressing her feelings rather than releasing them into the Force. "There's more," she says eventually, voice scratchy. "Something happened to the Force. Something terrible."

"The dark side is strongest in the midst of slaughter—"

"No, that's not—it was not while we were fighting. It was later, in the escape pod. It felt as though it were connected to . . . to me. Or to Revan."

"I would think the distinction would be clear," Zhar says, puzzled. He examines Bastila in the Force—frayed and worn, yes, but still bright, still strong. "Perhaps it is simply a reaction to the immensity of what transpired on that ship. We— _you_ —have captured the Dark Lord. You may well have altered the course of history today."

"Perhaps, Master," Bastila says. "But I cannot help but feel uneasy."

"I'm sure this will prove a turning point in the war. A turn for the better," Zhar reassures her. "You did well, Bastila. Get some rest. It will clear your mind."

"Yes, Master," she says, still tense with anxiety and grief, but she leaves in search of a berth regardless.

Zhar sits down at the long curved conference table, letting himself relax for the first time since the mission was suggested. The Force is still knotted and tangled, uncertain, corrupted—but now, at least, there is the potential to unravel it, reweave it, make it whole once more.

An hour later such optimism seems premature, as the Council members on Dantooine and Coruscant convene via holoprojector to determine what, exactly, they are supposed to do with an unconscious Sith Lord. Thanks to Bastila's intervention Revan probably will not die just yet, but the fact remains that if and when she awakens, it will not be as an ally of the Republic.

"We knew this mission was unlikely to succeed," Vandar Tokare says, brow furrowed in deep thought. "And we knew that, even if it did, the aftermath would not be an easy road."

"Are we certain that we can afford the risk of leaving Revan alive?" says Atris, white robes luminous blue from the hologram's light.

The other Councilors mutter amongst themselves. Vandar clears his throat. "We are Jedi," he says sternly. "All life is sacred. The day we begin to compromise our Code for expediency's sake is the day that the Order is truly lost. Is that not the reason why Revan fell?"

"Then what do you propose we do? I opposed this mission when it was first suggested, and this is exactly why—we may have captured her, but we lost four experienced Knights in the effort, and even now she is no friend of ours."

"We have not yet spoken with her," says Zhar, feeling the weight of the Council's eyes upon him. "She might be willing to seek redemption, if it were offered. Her cooperation in atonement for her war crimes."

Vrook Lamar scowls, his image flickering blue. "And if she is not?"

"Then we will try something else."

"What, pray tell?" Atris says. She crosses her arms, fixing each Councilor in turn in a steely look. "Indefinite imprisonment?"

"The Republic will want her knowledge—that is, after all, how we convinced them to agree to support us in this plan," says Vandar. "If we cannot convince her to divulge the source of the enemy's power, they will try. And they will fail. She is a powerful Sith. It will take far more than truth serum to draw out her secrets."

"Then what has been the point of this entire venture?" Vrook demands. "Have we sacrificed four of our best Knights for nothing?"

"Revan is no longer a threat to the Republic," Vandar says. "Without her commanding the Sith fleet—"

"—they still have Darth Malak, who for all his reliance on brute force over cunning is _still_ a dangerous opponent!"

"Calm yourself, Master Vrook," Zez-Kai Ell says, stroking his mustache. "Now is not the time for infighting."

"No," Vandar says, "my friend makes a good point. We have discussed and debated this issue time and again. Ultimately, it comes down to this: we must discover the Sith's power source, whether Revan commands them or not. Terrible damage can be inflicted upon the galaxy, even by a mediocre general, if enough ships and troops are unleashed. And Malak is by no stretch of the imagination mediocre."

"Then Revan must be revived and interrogated," says Vrook.

"Padawan Shan is an exceptional healer," Zhar says. "And from what she has told me, she and Revan established something of a rapport during their escape from the _Crusader_."

"Are you suggesting we leave the fate of the Republic—for that is what is at stake here, Zhar—in the hands of an inexperienced apprentice?" Vrook says incredulously.

Zhar gives his colleague a long, level look. "She is a singularly _gifted_ apprentice, and of course others should and will be present to assist her."

"I will gladly lend my aid should the need arise," Vandar says. As the only other Council member physically present with the fleet, and as one of Bastila's oldest mentors, it seems appropriate.

"So we wait and see," Zez-Kai says. "And if Revan should prove unwilling . . .?"

". . . She—her mind is _vulnerable,_ at the moment," Zhar says haltingly, a terrible idea occurring to him. "There are ways to . . . press the advantage, so to speak."

"Tear her mind apart looking for intel?" Atris snorts. "What if something goes wrong? All hope of finding the Sith's weapon would be lost!"

"There may be another option," says Zhar. "It is difficult, and requires the efforts of several Masters, but it can be done . . ."

Zhar outlines the plan and listens as it is argued over, refined, and finally postponed until more is known of Revan's attitudes. He wonders if this is how corruption begins—one tiny step over the line, and another, and another.

He wonders if they can afford to refuse the chance.

**o.O.o**

She closes her eyes, allows her trepidation to dissolve into the Force. Or tries to, anyway. It settles cold and unpleasant at the back of her mind, a sludgy precipitate. She does not want to do this. She _can't_ do this—

"You'll be fine," Zhar says, patting her shoulder, ever the supportive mentor.

"We have the utmost faith in you," says Vandar, from near her knees.

Sometimes she wishes her mentors would stop telling her how brilliant and exceptional she is, and say, "Sorry, Padawan, but you're in far over your head. Let us take care of things for you." Selfish, perhaps, but in this case, she'd rather be anywhere but here in the highest-security detention block of the _Tempest_.

Bastila tries once more to center herself. It's a feeble and inadequate effort, but she has no choice but to open the cell and walk inside.

Revan lies supine on a cot, attended by a medical droid, her nose and mouth obscured by an oxygen mask, her wrists and ankles restrained. Bastila cannot help but stare, because she is _frail,_ spindly and wasted, flesh stretched dry and tight over her bones. Her face is ashen, all the color leached from her skin. Her closed eyes are sunken and shadowed as if by deep, long weariness. Every breath is thin and reedy, rasping in her throat.

Without the Mandalorian helm, she is not some looming legend, all power and menace and mystique—just a human shell, the vitality burned out by long exposure to the dark side.

"Is she aware?" Bastila hears Master Vandar say.

"Unlikely," says the medical droid. "Although she does seem to be developing a resistance to the sedatives we have been using."

"Wake her," says Vandar, as Zhar moves to affix the neural disruptor collar and removes the oxygen mask. Bastila swallows hard as it clicks into place around Revan's painfully thin throat.

"Of course, Master Jedi."

A brief injection and thirty long seconds of waiting later, Revan blinks awake, bloodshot eyes glazed and unfocused from the neural disruptor.

"Darth Revan," Bastila says, priding herself that her voice does not tremble. "You are on board the RAS _Tempest_ as a prisoner of war. Are you familiar with your rights as such, under Republic law?" A formality: Revan did fight on their side against the Mandalorians, but protocol and law cannot be sacrificed for convenience's sake—that is what separates them from the Sith.

Revan makes a noise, chokes. Deep dry coughs rattle in her chest. "Yes," she rasps eventually.

"I would like to ask you a few questions," says Bastila.

Revan laughs, all bitterness and spite. "You can ask."

"But you will not answer?"

She just looks through Bastila, gaze drifting lazily over her, and a creeping chill runs down the Jedi's spine. She clears her throat. "You are Revan, once a Jedi Knight of the Order, born on Deralia?"

"Yes."

"Deralia is a Rim world, is it not? In the Tammuz system. Not too far from the areas worst ravaged by the Mandalorians in the latter days of the war."

Revan smiles knowingly. "Yes."

"Is that why you were so adamant that the Jedi join the conflict?"

"The home—I haven't seen in over a decade. Of course." Still smiling, still mocking.

Bastila sets her jaw. This is not an auspicious start, yet Vandar and Zhar remain silent, simply observing. Perhaps another approach. "Revan, I am trying to understand you," she beseeches. "I only wish to know how—"

"You want to know where—where the Fleet comes from," Revan says. "How all those ships—how we build them. Helping me—is the last thing on your mind."

"What do you want from us, then?"

"I want you all dead," Revan says, a soft hiss.

Bastila folds her arms and shakes her head, sensing a complete lack of conviction. "What do you want?" she repeats.

Revan scoffs as best she can when her eyes will barely focus. "I don't . . . nothing you can give me."

"Not even your freedom?"

Vandar makes a faint noise of protest, quickly stifled. Revan huffs out an amused breath. "As if that were ever on the table, Jedi."

Bastila is getting desperate. She is no interrogator; she is not made for this, for wrangling recalcitrant enemy commanders because they've exchanged a few words that are not entirely antagonistic, saved each other's lives through sheer necessity— _how_ can the Council expect her to make any headway whatsoever?

"Patience," murmurs Zhar.

Patience. This is not the work of a single conversation. This will be the work of days, perhaps weeks. Or longer. She must learn what makes Revan who she is, learn how to persuade the most charismatic, strong-willed leader of a generation . . .

The Republic doesn't have that kind of time.

"Very well," says Bastila, heavily. "Answer one more question for me, then. Why did you fall?"

Revan is chuckling again. It is a singularly mirthless sound. "The Jedi are weak," she says, with difficulty. "You and your—precious Republic, you are _weak_."

"That is not an answer." She's certain of it—surely it can't be that . . . that ordinary. That boring. She has spoken with a few fallen Jedi prisoners, to better gauge the enemy's mindset and thus manipulate it with her Battle Meditation, and they all say the same thing. But _Revan_? Surely the hero of the Mandalorian Wars had a better reason to fall to the Dark Side!

Of course, Master Dorak would say that all fallen Jedi's motivations boil down to the basest of emotions. Lust for power among them. Still. It sits wrong with Bastila.

"Is it not?"

"I know that you left the Order to fight in the wars first out of noble intentions. You wanted peace."

"Peace is a lie," Revan says, toneless. "There is only passion."

"There is no emotion; there is peace," Bastila says automatically. She clamps her jaw shut, then, because _really_? Quoting their respective Codes at a time like this? Counterproductive in the extreme. No debate—and this is not a debate, but an interrogation, Bastila must remember that—was ever won by parroting creeds at each other.

Revan should know that. She was—is—among the most persuasive speakers of their time. So why give such a non-answer?

Everything about this, Bastila thinks, is wrong. Like their exchange on the bridge of the _Crusader_ , they are both playing to a script. And it will get them absolutely nowhere. So. How to proceed? How can she bypass the armor of a Sith Lord with no interest in cooperating with Bastila, much less taking her seriously? Brute force—or Force—is always an option, if an inelegant and morally questionable one. She has heard some of the Masters insist that overpowering a prisoner's mental defenses with the Force is an entirely acceptable act in a time of war. She has heard others claim that such an act is an affront to the Jedi way.

Bastila gingerly probes the edges of Revan's mind, and nearly chokes as a familiar barrier slams down before her. On the cot, Revan's lips twitch into a smirk. "It'd take—far more than a child's power—to break me," she rasps.

"Perhaps," Vandar says gravely, "but she is not alone." Bastila can feel his consciousness stretching out to join hers, bolstering her should she try again.

Revan's head flops a bit sideways, bringing the diminutive Jedi Master into her field of view. "By all means, then," she sneers.

"No," Bastila says. "There will be no need." Because they are still following the script. Still locked in a farce of pronouncement and threat and counter-threat. Revan is powerful, even now. The threat of pain, physical or mental, will not sway her. But perhaps a different approach . . . Bastila takes a step closer, releasing the Force and focusing solely on Revan. "There will be no need for such measures, because I know you, I think, better than you'd like. I felt something within you when I saved your life. Hidden, buried deep, but undeniable. Something . . . beautiful."

Revan, to her credit, is not terribly thrown by the change in tactics. She leers a bit. It would be almost funny if it weren't both pitiful and repulsive.

"A spark of _goodness,_ " Bastila says loudly, ignoring her. "Still burning, or you would not have saved my life. You are not beyond hope of redemption, Revan. You never were."

"Why would I want—"

"Because you were once a hero," says Bastila. "Once, you fought to protect the people of the galaxy. You stood on the ravaged shores of Cathar and vowed never to rest until the galaxy was made safe again."

Revan's eyes narrow. "A work in—progress, I'll grant you."

"This is what you'd call saving the galaxy?" Bastila demands. "Is it worth the billions upon billions of innocents killed in the name of some utopian Empire?"

_Anger_ snaps through her, out of nowhere, molten metal against unprotected flesh. Bastila staggers back—this is not sensing another's emotions, this is not mere empathy—it is _real_ , immediate and dangerous and not hers.

Master Zhar catches her before she can topple over backwards. "Bastila? Bastila, what is wrong?"

"I—I don't know," she says, pressing a hand to her forehead. The rage has passed, but something else remains, a simmering ugly morass—disdain, hate, and utter certainty.

Not mine!

"Master Vandar, perhaps we should continue this at another time," Zhar says.

"Very well," Vandar says with a short nod, turning to the medical droid. "Sedate her again, please."

The droid presses the oxygen mask to Revan's lower face as it makes another injection, and within seconds she is out cold.

Bastila totters out of the cell block, leaning heavily on Master Zhar for support as the alien emotions fade away.

"What happened?" Zhar asks, guiding her to the elevator.

She tries not to think about the _Crusader_ , and falling, and the dull crack of Revan's ribs breaking on impact with the side of the shaft . . .

"I felt something," she says. "Anger. Terrible anger. I—I think it was hers. I couldn't block it out, I couldn't stop it—"

"Oh, dear."

Her heart rate skyrockets. "What?"

"Bastila . . . How intensely did you delve into her mind to heal her in the escape pod?"

". . . I'm not sure I follow," she says faintly as the elevator doors hiss open.

Zhar pulls her in after him and punches the button for the hangar bay. "The only reason she lives is your intervention. You said that there was a massive disturbance in the Force—but none of the other Jedi present in the battle felt it. I think you may have forged a Force bond with Revan."

Bastila stares at him. "I what?"

**o.O.o**

An hour later, she stands before the full Council.

"I—I'm not quite sure what this entails," Bastila says shakily. "I know a Force bond means that two Jedi are linked, somehow . . ."

"It means that your destinies are intertwined," says Dorak, "although to what purpose, we do not know. Whether for good or ill, you are connected."

She wants to shout _But I don't want this, I never wanted this!_ , to rant and sob and snarl at how unfair it is that her fate is now shackled to that of a Sith Lord. She does none of these things. Bastila, because she is a Jedi still, _lets go_. She chokes back her frustration and fear, releases them into the Force, allows it to fill her with calm and serenity and peace. It is difficult—so very difficult. She cannot extinguish the last few embers. But she retains control and does not humiliate herself with a childish temper tantrum. Life is not fair. She serves the Force's will regardless. That is the Jedi way.

"Masters," she says, "what am I to do now?"

"Nothing," says Vandar. "We will determine the next step, Padawan. For now, leave us. It has been a very trying few days for you, and for us all."

"Yes, Master," she says, bowing, resolutely ignoring the panic building up again at the back of her mind.

In her quarters that evening, she scrutinizes her face in the mirror, searching for some outward sign of the change within her. There is none. Nevertheless, she feels . . . tainted, somehow, by touching Revan's mind, binding them together, however inadvertently. As if even sedated and badly wounded, Revan might reach out and pull her under, drown her in the same darkness that consumed the once-valiant Knight.

Pure fancy, she knows, and she shakes her head and turns from the mirror.

Revan's mask, salvaged from the escape pod, watches her from atop the locker at the foot of her bed. It was originally a symbol of defiance, casting Revan as some kind of avenging angel for those slain by the Mandalorians. Now it is synonymous with one of the greatest evils the galaxy has ever faced.

The black eyeslit seems to pull the light from the room. Bastila shivers, and stuffs it into the footlocker under a set of her spare robes. She resolves to ignore it.

She cannot ignore her own vulnerabilities, though. She is prideful and headstrong—this she knows for certain, having been on the receiving end of more than one lecture from her Masters to that effect—and these are dangers in and of themselves. More so now that she cannot trust her own mind.

**o.O.o**

In the morning they tell her that they had planned to scour Revan's mind for intelligence after her efforts failed—they seem to have expected failure, which stings a bit—but with the bond, Bastila's mind might be damaged as well. They tell her that the bond places her in exponentially greater danger from the dark side's influence.

They tell her, in sum, that her efforts to complete her mission have rendered its end purpose unachievable. They cannot have both—either they lose Bastila's Battle Meditation, or Revan's knowledge of the Sith.

"This places us in a . . . difficult position," says Vandar. "Removing the bond may well be our only option, but the shock will surely kill Revan, and with her any hope of discovering the source of the Sith's power."

"Then let her die," says Atris. "The Republic desperately needs Bastila—"

"—who may suffer greatly from the backlash," Vandar continues. "We could lose them both if Revan dies, whether by severed bond or directly at our hands."

"But we cannot in good conscience let this state of affairs continue!" Vrook bursts out. "If Bastila falls it will spell disaster for the Republic—imagine what the Sith could do if augmented by her abilities!"

"I will not fall over this," she declares, and the entire Council turns to her. She wilts slightly under their gazes, ranging from the compassion of Nomi Sunrider to the flinty consideration of Vrook to the reserved caution of Vandar. Zhar, at least, does not look at her as if she is about to go mad and start killing things if someone sneezes.

"You advocate maintaining the bond? To what end?" Atris says, frowning.

She presses her hands against the tabletop in an effort to keep from fidgeting. "I—I am not a good interrogator," she says slowly. "And Revan would likely take her secrets to the pyre even if we brought in the best of the best. But perhaps, though the bond, there could be—there could be some way to draw out the information we need."

Vandar looks wary. "A great risk," he says. "Particularly to you . . ."

"If we remove it, she will die," Bastila says simply. "And—and did you not command us to capture her, not kill her? Did you not say that all life is sacred, even that of a Sith Lord?"

The Council members exchange guarded glances. Across the circle, Zhar gives a tiny nod of approval.

"I believe this brings us to my earlier proposed solution," he says.

**o.O.o**

"A career soldier. It will reinforce her loyalty to the Repubilc."

"But if any of Revan should resurface, the dissonance between the implanted personality and the original might precipitate a breakdown."

"We can't simply paint over Revan with—with more of the same!"

"We will not, I assure you. She will have an ironclad moral code."

"Revan _has_ an ironclad moral code, however flawed. That's the problem."

". . . Yes, well. What say you, Master Zhar?"

"Make her something a bit shady. A smuggler, a thief—a liar. Let her be repentant though—she wants to help us, she feels guilt over her past crimes. Let her use her undeniable skills for a more positive end."

"I still think this is a bad idea." A sigh. "But you're right, both of you."

"What of the Force? We can't set this—this smuggler turned soldier loose upon the galaxy with the full range of her powers."

"True. Without any recollection of Jedi training, she would be certain to suspect something."

"So block it."

"Indeed."

"So she'll have been a smuggler, and she'll have no knowledge of the Force. The Republic captured her, offered her freedom in exchange for her services . . . as what?"

"Not a front-line fighter. It would be nigh impossible to keep an eye on her. And if she were to die . . ."

"A codebreaker. They are under constant supervision. And we can certainly give her some knowledge of slicing and cryptography."

"A fine suggestion. Now, let us discuss the details of her early life . . ."

**o.O.o**

_They dig. They carve into her, pick her apart, searching for the secret—she will not tell them, she will not let them, she will not. Cannot._

_She doesn't ask why not. Can't._

_Skinless hands and naked bone, scrabbling in the dust and the desert, burying the secret. They will not take it. They will not have it._

. . .

"To think we once believed ourselves at a disadvantage," Malak said, gazing out at the massive floating in the emptiness above the star of - - - - -. "But this? This is true power. We will be unstoppable."

"Overconfidence, my apprentice?"

"Merely an observation. The - - - - - is operating at nearly fifty percent capacity and shows no signs of slowing. At this rate we will have a fleet large enough to overrun the Republic within a matter of—"

"Numbers give an edge, not a guarantee. Do not place all your trust in - - - - -. Look at where it landed the - - - - -."

Malak laughed, leaning against the wall with folded arms. "Come, now, surely you can feel it, Revan—this place is alive with the Dark Side. With it at our command, how can we fail?"

She smiled grimly, behind the mask. "Pray that we do not find out."

. . .

_They want to tear her life apart. They have needles that drive in and out of her face, her flesh, her heart. They want to replace her. The seams do not meet up right. There is a heart tender and warm and noble and they are pressing it into her chest. They stitch it in. They stitch it in with their needles of thought. The edges bleed. There is a hole._

. . .

She was born on Deralia, the child of poor workers in the planet's agricultural zone. A long drought and a food shortage forced her parents to send her off-planet with her uncle, a spacer, who raised her until she came of age and got a ship of her own. She fell in with a rough crowd, incurred one debt too many, and eventually began freelancing as a smuggler. During the Mandalorian Wars she stayed off the Republic's radar, but with the onset of the Jedi Civil War she was caught in the crossfire and wound up in Republic custody. They impressed her into service for her skills with computers and security systems.

. . .

_They try to take hers. But she guards it, holds it. Clutches it, blackened and shriveled and cold, in bleeding broken hands._

_Mine. Get out. Get out. No._

_They have taken her face and her name and her life but she still has this, her self, and she hides it, cuts open the sweeter soul and burrows deep like a worm at the center of a fruit._

_They say, "What is your name?"_

_Liar. Traitor. Manipulator. Butcher. Revan._

_She says, "Sen Tethis."_

_It's what they want to hear._

. . .

She was born on Deralia, the child of poor workers in the planet's agricultural zone. A Jedi on assignment to mediate a management dispute sensed her Force potential, and her parents gave her to the Order in the hopes that she would find a greater calling than harvesting other people's crops for a pittance. The money they received as compensation was enough to buy their own farm. Today they are prosperous and happy, and have made no connection between the girl they gave up and the Revanchist who defeated Mandalore the Ultimate, or the Dark Lord who threatened the Republic's very existence. And even if they did, they have long accepted that communication with their child is forbidden by the Jedi, and ill-advised in the case of the Sith.

She grew up on Dantooine, running amok amid the ruins and the stout trees and the sun-bright saw-edged grasslands. And then she came to Coruscant, a world of metal and glass and grimy light. A world of shadows. She devoured knowledge, glutted herself on it, delved deeper and deeper into secrets the Order wanted to keep hidden.

She did not fall. Not then.

(not yet)

. . .

_They say, "Where is it?"_

_She says, "I don't know."_

_She doesn't know what they're talking about._

. . .

(This never happened to Sen Tethis:)

She saw him around the enclave a lot these days. He was new. He always looked sad, though, and today was worse than usual, so she followed him across the courtyard and tugged at his sleeve and said, "Are you okay?"

He looked down at her, startled. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks?"

"I'm Revan. What's your name?"

"Alek."

"Nice to meet you. Whatcha doing?"

"I was going to class . . . I'm gonna be late."

"Oh. Then you should probably—"

"No, no, I just—nobody talks to me. So, um. Why did you?"

"You're sad, and sometimes it helps to talk. Are you homesick? You only got here a couple weeks ago."

He bit his lip and stared at the ground. "I—it's, I don't—home's . . . It's gone. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Have you talked to anyone else about it?"

"I—no. I mean, I did at first, to the Masters, but all they said was to l-let go. That it would get better someday. They told me to meditate on the Living Force. Because m-my family is p-part—crap. Crap." He sucked in a deep breath that kind of hitched and he blinked really hard like he was trying not to cry. "Why do you even care, anyway?" he said, almost angrily.

She hesitated, then reached for his hand. He jumped a little when she touched him. "I'm sorry," she said.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. His hair was cut so short she could see the freckles on his scalp. "Don't tell me it'll be better someday," he croaked.

"Okay. I won't."

". . . Thanks."

She didn't know what to say so she said the first thing that popped into her head. "Want to climb trees?"

"What?"

"You know. Sneak out, go to the old grove, climb trees."

"Instead of learning how to be a Jedi." But he was smiling, kind of, or at least his lips were twitching, so that was something.

"Even Jedi need to climb trees every once in a while!" she said, tugging him forward.

He followed her.

(he always does)

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	3. Fracture

_In which a great deal of effort goes to waste, cryptographers bicker, and Dramatic Irony abounds._

**o.O.o**

The moment Admiral Dodonna gives the all-clear, Bastila lets go of the Force as if it's scalded her. It drains away, from her and from every being aboard the Republic ships, leaving her feeling rather like a wrung-out sponge. A microbe-infested, _dirty_ sponge in dire need of an antibacterial cleanse.

Then she berates herself for letting her analogies get away from her. But only after checking to make sure that the connection between her mind and Revan's—or rather, Sen's, as the reprogramming seems to have been successful—is as tightly controlled as she can make it. A month since Revan's capture, and Bastila has yet to truly reconcile herself to the fact that they are linked. She's perfectly willing to use that link to the Jedi's advantage—she did, after all, serve as the conduit through which the Council could gain access to Revan's mind despite ferocious resistance—but that does not mean she likes the idea of it.

Particularly since her value to the Republic hinges on her ability to form connections with thousands of people simultaneously. If she were to become compromised, the consequences would be horrific.

Bastila rises from her cross-legged position on the bridge of the _Tempest_ , Dodonna giving her a sharp nod of acknowledgement from the conn. Another day, another battle. Another endless span of stillness while all around her people fight and die, the Force flowing from her to them, uniting whole fleets, giving them strength and speed and confidence. It's never enough. Not to save them all.

She brushes an errant lock of hair from her eyes, composing herself. "Admiral," she calls out, over the hubbub of the triumphant bridge crew, "if you have no more need of me . . .?"

"Dismissed, Padawan Shan," Dodonna says briskly. Her eyes soften. "We performed admirably today, thanks in no small part to you."

Bastila retreats as fast as is polite. She wants at least an hour or two to sleep, make up for lost time, before meeting with Zhar. Revan—Sen has recovered from the injuries received aboard the _Crusader_ , and the Council plans to set her down in her new life very soon. Bastila is reminded of the nature holos she used to watch as a child, curled up between her mother and father—scientists releasing rescued animals into the wild once they're healed.

She wanted to be a biologist. She remembers informing her parents of this fact at the tender age of six, completely serious. Her father grinned, cupped her face in his hands, kissed her forehead, and said, "You'll be brilliant, baby girl."

How different her life turned out to be.

Scowling, setting aside old memories, Bastila opens the door to her quarters, closes it behind her, and allows herself the childish pleasure of diving onto the bed. She's lost her equilibrium, spending so much time manipulating the thoughts of others while attempting to keep her own in line—she needs rest.

Rest, however, proves elusive. She spends her valuable free time tossing and turning, crawling under and kicking off and retrieving her sheets, too anxious to relax. She tries surrendering herself to the tides, but she brings her fears with her, staining the Living Force like blood in the water. Eventually she gives up in disgust, stalking into the 'fresher to splash her face and wake up properly, then marching out the door, pausing only to grab her lightsaber. It's not hers, quite—that was lost on the _Crusader_. She didn't construct this one, and it feels alien and awkward in her hand. But it's serviceable, and certainly more useful than no lightsaber at all. It will have to do until she can return to Dantooine and create something suitable.

Two decks above, Zhar is waiting for her in the starboard hangar bay. "I hear you were able to coordinate the rescue of an entire cruiser today," he says when she arrives. "Well done."

"We lost two corvettes," Bastila says, voice empty. The deaths of their crews still echo in the Force, intensified by their connection to Bastila when the ships went down. She felt their pain, their terror as the vacuum of space swallowed them, boiled the blood in their veins and stole the breath from their lungs. She could do nothing—not even ease their passing—so focused was she on those ships left intact to fight the Sith.

Zhar's gaze is compassionate, but his words are firm: "You cannot allow yourself to dwell on loss, Padawan. That way lies despair, and perhaps even anger."

"And thus the dark side," Bastila says dully.

Zhar sighs. "Yes. Soldiers die in battle—it is an ugly truth. But by our actions we can ensure that their sacrifice was not in vain."

"Yes, Master."

"Are you prepared to awaken Revan?"

Her spine straightens. "Yes." She is. She must be. There is no other option.

"Then let us depart." He leads the way towards the medical vessel that will take them—and a still-unconscious Revan—to Admiral Duncan's flotilla near Coruscant. They will see to it that Revan is safely delivered, and then return to the main fleet; she'll be kept abreast of any dangerous developments by an informant stationed in close proximity to Revan. Her priority for now, though, is the immediate war effort. Bastila's Battle Meditation has won them several consecutive engagements—Dodonna wants her back from her "important Jedi business" as soon as possible.

At least she's useful.

Sometimes she thinks that's all she is.

**o.O.o**

_Crew quarters, RAS_ Monument _-II_  
 _0618 hours_

Sen wakes up and thinks, _What the hell did I have to drink last night?_

Her head feels like it's been repeatedly pounded against concrete until well-tenderized, then thrown in a thresher. For a long time, she can't move. Every time she tries another bolt of bruising pain drives through her skull. Slowly, hands shaking, she presses her fingers to her eyes. The deeper red-black is soothing, safe compared to the harsh scarlet glare of the overhead lights through her eyelids.

"C'mon, newbie, you've got work to do," a woman's voice snaps out nearby.

Sen winces and peeks through her fingers, squinting hard against the light. "Ungh," she says, as a scowling shadow appears over her.

"Yeah, yeah, cry me a frackin' river. Get up and get gone. Your shift starts in ten minutes."

Right. Her shift. She . . . she has a job, now. A real, legitimate job. For the Republic.

_She wants to help, she feels guilt over her past crimes—let her use her undeniable skills for a more positive end—_

Her headache spikes again, and she moans softly before hauling herself out of bed, scrubbing a hand through her short hair. Her bunkmate's a human woman, blonde and willowy, with really nice eyebrows. She's leaning against the door frame glaring at Sen, arms folded, and Sen blinks . . .

"Come _on_ ," the woman says.

"Sorry, sorry," she mutters, scrambling to find her jumpsuit and boots—they're in the footlocker at the end of her cot, where they always are, of course, because that's . . . where you put your things.

Whatever she drank, she is never, ever drinking it again. Ever.

Black boots, grey jumpsuit, red jacket. Gloves in her pocket. Run to the 'fresher, piss, brush teeth, dash out of the cabin and run like hell to the elevator while her nameless bunkmate shuts the door about half a centimeter behind her. It's her first day on the job. She can't be late. She wants this to work out. She does.

_She wants to help, she feels—_

Sen shakes her head fiercely. What the _hell_. This is getting to be a definite problem. Spitting out a Mandalorian curse—great language for swearing in—she jabs at the elevator button.

The doors hiss open. And Sen—stops. She—falling, falling and someone holding her hand and impact _painpainpain_ and what the hell, what the actual fracking _hell—_

"Everything all right?" the Ithorian inside asks.

She opens her mouth. She feels dizzy. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Are you going to Communications?"

"That I am. You must be the newest addition to our herd of nerds," he says.

"Your . . . what?" she says, forcing herself to step and step and then she's in the lift and. And that's. She breathes. Why is she panicking? It's just an elevator. It's not like anything memorable ever happened to her in an elevator. There's this weird pressure building behind her eyes the more she thinks about it, so she stops.

The Ithorian laughs. It's an incredibly resonant laugh, two mouths and four throats turning a simple expulsion of air into a happy chord. She focuses on the sound—it's beautiful. "That's what we're called by the rest of the crew. Don't worry, it's all in good fun."

Thank frack at least this guy's friendly. "Right. Um, so I'm Sen Tethis," she says, sticking out her hand.

He takes it and bows his head a little. "A pleasure. Iden Kalorn, Senior Analyst."

Iden takes her down to Comms and shows her to a workstation between a sharp-faced Bothan woman and a stocky human man. "All right, my ducklings," he says, "here's your new best friend, Sen Tethis. These two slackers are Veska Mey'lis and Pol Fintan. They'll show you the ropes and get you settled in. I have to go to a briefing with the other section heads, so I'll leave you to it."

"Thanks," says Sen, and Iden nods and leaves.

There's a mildly uncomfortable pause. She lowers herself into the seat and laces her fingers between her knees to keep from fidgeting.

"Well, welcome aboard," Pol says, one arm slung over the back of his chair, in which he's sitting sideways. "Do you want to do the awkward icebreaker activities first, or would you prefer getting to work?"

"I—work, definitely," she says.

"Brilliant," says Pol, grinning. "'Cos I hate icebreakers. Give me hives, they do. Veska here starts shedding."

Sen makes an agreeable noise.

"New Sith transmissions intercepted last night," says Veska, leveling a cool glare in Pol's direction. "We decipher and send them to Iden. He sends them to the war room."

"Just jump right in," says Pol, spinning his chair around and coming to a stop facing more or less forward, tapping at his workstation to bring up the first transmission.

"On it," Sen says.

And for the next few hours, she works—the codes the Sith use are tough, but between pretty significant number-crunching power from the onboard computers and plain old ingenuity, the three analysts manage to make significant progress.

Her headache doesn't fade out as the morning rambles on in lines of numbers and letters and algorithms. If anything, it gets worse the longer she stares at the screen.

By lunch at 1130 hours, Pol has asked if she wants to take a break no less than six times, and Veska three. "You look terrible," the Bothan says bluntly, while the human assures her that she does not in fact have to work herself to death on her first day.

"Iden'll understand if you need to take it a bit slower at first, he tends to prefer avoiding employee burnout—"

"I've got this," Sen insists. "I think I've figured out how they—"

"I'm starved," Pol says, "and you're accompanying us to the canteen if I have to make Veska drag you."

Sen frowns. "Why not drag me yourself?"

"Such hunger—I cannot muster the energy—please, Sen, don't make me suffer another moment!" he whimpers, blinking pathetically up at her.

She stares at him. Then she cracks a smile, rakes her bangs off her forehead, and stands up. "Okay, okay, fine."

"Pity," Veska says. "Was looking forward to dragging you."

Lunch in the mess is—pleasant. Weirdly so. Pol does most of the talking, for which she's grateful. Veska provides the pithy commentary. And Sen finds herself relaxing, for the first time since . . . in a long time. These are good people. They complain about their coworkers, their superiors, their families—Veska's clipped, practically monosyllabic account of a cousin's disastrous wedding has everyone down to the serving staff howling with mirth—but they're good-natured rather than petty. And they don't push her to bare her entire life story to them. Which is fortunate, because she doubts she could remember the juicy details through the headache.

After lunch they return to work, and by the end of their shift they've decrypted two of the five transmissions and are well along on the other three. They're mostly low-priority, dry reports on supply lines and outposts the Republic already knows about—which would explain why they were so easy to crack—but every scrap of intel counts.

"Not bad for your first day on the job," Pol says, clapping her on the shoulder as they shut down their workstations to leave for the evening.

"Thanks," she says. She picks at the cuff of her jacket, then looks at him and Veska. "I mean it. Thank you."

"Welcome," Veska grunts.

"Grab dinner in the canteen?"

"Sure."

**o.O.o**

"How is she?" Zhar asks.

Bastila opens her eyes. "It's holding," she says. "The new personality is solid—she's a bit disorientated, but seems not to be questioning it too closely."

"Good. You did very well, Bastila."

**o.O.o**

Her bunkmate is snoring loudly when she returns to their quarters that night. Sen smiles a little and toes off her boots, creeping into the 'fresher to clean up without waking her. She takes a quick shower, dons an oversized shirt printed with the Republic Navy's insignia, and crawls into bed. Despite her bunkmate's snores, she falls asleep almost immediately.

She dreams.

Needles, and knives, and bars of burning light. A mirror, reflecting a voiceless shadow that beats its fists against the blood-flecked glass. Her shadow. She reaches out to it—

Fire. A world aflame, blooms of scarlet and orange glowing like molten glass on its night side, plumed serpents of ash and smoke coiling around the day. This is power. This is victory, ruin and corpses and death—

_Something is watching._ Vast and empty and hateful, so hateful, devouring, consuming, destroying—its breath in her ear, its hand on her throat, an unspeakable heaviness dragging at her limbs as it pushes and _pushes_ until she stumble-stumble-falls. Watching. It's watching, and where the stars burn hollow and bitter it's waiting, and it will devour them all—

Her eyes snap open, an unvoiced scream lodged in her throat. She can barely think or see through the pounding against the inside of her skull. It's as if something's fighting to burst out. She's shaking, cold with sweat, her hands twisting at the bedsheets.

Slowly, slowly, the terror fades as reality reasserts itself. She's not in any danger. There are no monsters behind the stars. There are no worlds burning at her command. It was a dream. Nothing more. _Nothing more._

_She feels guilt over her past crimes._

Sen slowly exhales. This is beyond the hangover from hell. This is something else. Something bad.

Her bunkmate is gone, having left for her own shift. Sen would almost prefer it if she were here, snores and all. It's all too easy to get lost in the dark.

**o.O.o**

"When do I begin pressing for intel?"

Zhar looks at her, head-tails twitching slightly in bemusement. "Patience, Padawan. Let her stabilize in her new life before you seek to draw out the knowledge she hid from us." He glances out the viewport, almost wistful. "Not many fallen Jedi get a second chance."

"You pity her," Bastila realizes.

"I pity all those who are consumed by the Dark. And I grieve for their deaths at our hands, and ours at theirs."

Bastila picks at a loose thread at the hem of her tunic. "So Revan's . . . enforced redemption is something of a victory."

"It is absolutely a victory," says Zhar. "For all that she did not choose it, I believe that the apprentice I once taught would have wanted this."

"You taught Revan?"

"Oh, yes. Years ago. She had many Masters, but I was among her first when she came to us on Dantooine. Still rather old for a prospective Jedi, but she had such potential . . . She truly believed in the Jedi way." He shakes his head sadly. "We saw this coming, you know. We had no idea how bad it might get, but we knew that she could become a terrible instrument of the dark side. Sometimes I wonder if we might have done more to prevent all this from happening—if, by indulging her attachments and obsessions, we encouraged her down this path . . ."

"Attachments? You mean Malak?"

"Alek, then, but yes. The two of them seemed a perfectly matched pair of troublemakers. Harmless, for the most part, and neither had any great connection to anyone else in the Enclave, so we allowed their friendship to deepen."

Bastila snorts. "And look how that ended."

Zhar throws her a quelling look. "It ended," he says, "in tragedy. In two friends—some even say lovers—willing to kill each other for the sake of power. Such is the allure of the dark side. And that is no laughing matter."

"My apologies, Master."

"None needed, but I accept—ah, it appears we've reached the Fleet."

Bastila finds it somewhat difficult to drag herself out of the shuttle when they land in the _Tempest_ 's hangar bay once again. Discipline keeps her steps steady and her head held high, with no sign of her reluctance—but she does not want to return to the endless grind of meditation and battle. The Republic needs, her, though, and she will do her duty. She will do whatever it takes to defend against the Sith.

She pauses at the bottom of the boarding ramp, turning to Zhar, still inside the shuttle. "Are you not coming, Master?" she asks.

"I'm afraid I must return to Dantooine," he says. "Vandar, too, will be leaving the Fleet within the next few weeks."

"I don't know if I can do this alone," Bastila says, unable to hide the shrill edge of desperation in her voice.

"I believe you can, Bastila. You are a very gifted Jedi. And you will not be alone—we are dispatching several Guardians for your protection. But Vandar and I are needed at the Enclave. With so many Jedi falling or being killed, it is more important than ever to successfully train a new generation."

"But—"

"There is no emotion," Zhar says gently.

". . . There is peace," Bastila whispers, bowing her head. She clears her throat. "Yes. Thank you, Master."

"May the Force be with you, Bastila Shan," he says, as the ramp begins to hiss upwards, sealing the vessel.

"And with you," she murmurs.

**o.O.o**

Her bunkmate, as it turns out, is called Aleesa Vann. Aleesa is just as grouchy on Sen's second day on the _Monument_ -II as on her first, but at least Sen knows her name now. That was a fun conversation.

Sen, Pol, and Veska receive a new, high-priority transmission to decode that morning. "We intercepted this just an hour ago," Iden tells them. "It's a missive from the _Leviathan_. So get cracking."

They spend the next four hours poring over the transmission, running it through program after program, staring at the data, trying to squeeze meaning out of the noise. They try brute force, surgical precision, everything in between. Pol mutters to himself throughout the entire effort, curses and snippets of his train of thought. It's annoying, but Sen says nothing, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to tune him out. Veska, too, is quiet for the most part, except when Pol's grumbling turns to louder exclamations. Then she rises from her chair, stands behind Pol, and claps a hand over his mouth. He makes a muffled noise of protest. She leans in and says, flatly, "If you don't shut up I will punch you."

"Mmmhghhnnghffnn?"

"No."

"Mmmmph."

Veska is unimpressed. "I mean it."

Pol sighs and nods. She lets go. He gives a lopsided grin. "That bad, eh?"

"Yes."

"My sincerest apologies," Pol says, insincerely.

Sen snorts and, on a whim, tries another possible key. This feels . . . familiar, weirdly so. Muscle memory, almost.

Her monitor beeps—a solution. Breath catching, she tries it—and the ciphertext resolves into clear Basic. "Got it!" she says.

"Get that to Iden straightaway," says Pol, peering at her monitor curiously.

She pings the Ithorian the file and cracks her knuckles, satisfied. Idly, she scrolls through the missive. She freezes.

_Lord Malak demands an explanation for the failure of the Endless to hold position during the battle over Ersanne. The Captain will report to the_ Leviathan _by 1900 to answer for his failures._

"Ooh, someone's getting strangled," Pol says.

"Morlissen," says Sen.

"Hmm?"

"Tova Morlissen. The captain."

"How the bloody hell do you remember that kind of stuff?" Pol complains. "I can barely keep the Republic brass straight, much less some Sith captain!"

Sen blinks. "He's—" She breaks off, frowning, because . . . Tova Morlissen is a decent officer, steady in a crisis, a bit uncreative but still effective. Cautious. Perhaps too cautious, but . . .

_He doesn't deserve what's coming to him,_ she thinks, and she wonders why she should care.

"He's what?"

"He must've been on the HoloNet at some point," she says vaguely. He fought during the Mandalorian Wars, so it would make sense for the Republic media to mention his desertion.

It's the only possible explanation.

She presses her fingertips into her eye sockets.

**o.O.o**

It's ship's night. Aleesa is on duty and will be for the next few hours. She has the cabin to herself. So she peels herself out of the jumpsuit, stands in her socks on the cold 'fresher floor, shivering slightly.

She turns on the sink to splash hot water on her face. Scalding hot. It burns, but it's soothing. It makes the wisps around her hairline clump and stick to her forehead and cheeks. Water drips from her nose and chin.

The face in the mirror is . . . hers. Pure and simple. Amber-brown eyes, black hair, skin just a shade too pale under the harsh shipboard lights.

It's wrong.

Her head is killing her.

"What is wrong with me?" she whispers.

"Everything," hisses her reflection.

And she says, "Oh."

The pain in her head turns to white-hot agony. The mirror shatters, silver shards and glassy shrapnel. She's falling. Falling and there is nothing, no ground and no sky and nothing to hold onto. Blood in her mouth, burning in her eyes, singing in her veins. Cold—the dead cold of space, absolute zero barely disturbed by thin streams of photons from distant stars.

Rage.

And Revan remembers.

**o.O.o**

The first missive from her informant arrives at 2251 hours two days after leaving the reprogrammed Sith on board. She laboriously takes the meaningless jumble of letters and runs them through her key with flimsi and stylus, reads the message, and breathes at last.

_ALLWE LLMAK INGFR IENDS WITHC OWORK ERSSE EMSHA PPYEV ERYTH INGFI NE._

"Everything is fine," Bastila says to herself. "Everything is absolutely fine."

She burns the message, setting it aflame with the edge of her lightsaber. She smiles as she brushes the ash down the rubbish chute, to be compacted and recycled or jettisoned.

Everything is fine, and Revan's survival is secret, and _she can do this._

**o.O.o**

She cleans up the mirror shards. Her hands are laced with red filigree by the time she's done, a thousand tiny cuts and slices. It doesn't occur to her until she's rinsing them under the tap that she could have used the Force.

And then it becomes apparent that she _couldn't._

The Force is gone. She knows it's out there, can almost feel it, muffled and distant—but she can't reach it, can't touch it. Isolated. Trapped in a crevasse with no way out. She is hyperventilating, panicking, tears springing to her eyes. She doubles over and stumbles to the toilet, dry-heaves until her midsection aches—she's hollow, she thinks wildly, they tore the Force out of her and left her with a mind that isn't hers, knowledge she never learned—

_My name is Revan._ That is fact. Axiomatic. _I am a Jedi_ —but she isn't, not really, not anymore; she cast that title aside when she ordered her fleet to enter the Unknown Regions . . .

Her eyes widen. She can't remember what she found. She can't even remember what she was searching for, only that it involved the Mandalorian Wars—and afterwards, afterwards is a blur, fragmented images. Endless sand. Shadows under the water. A cave simmering with the dark side . . . Malak, always at her side, but drawing further and further away—

" _Dar'vod_ ," she breathes. Mandalorian. _No-longer-brother._

She has to think. To . . . to figure this out. Salvage what she can.

Her name is Revan, and she was a Jedi. Her closest, truest friend was called Malak. They fought the Mandalorians together. Drove them back. Destroyed them. And then . . . Something important, something to do with the war. Not the fighting itself. _Why_. Why it happened at all . . .

She wanders to her locker, pulls out a medpack for her still-bleeding hands. She'll come back to the whys and the wherefores later. Everything after the end of the Mandalorian Wars is hidden, somehow. Buried. Later, she'll work through it later.

She was a Sith Lord, though. She remembers that, the heft of armor, the chilly satisfaction of crushing someone's windpipe, the rush of the dark side—

Part of her recoils in horror at the thought. It feels . . . perfunctory, though. Following some hidden protocol.

Ah. The Jedi. She was captured, thanks to Malak. Bastila Shan. The Council—she remembers what they did to her. In excruciating detail.

They tried to rewrite her, wall up the Sith and replace her with something unremarkable, something _safe._ She flexes her hands, slimy with a thin coating of antibiotics and kolto, and presses her lips together. She is not safe. In any sense—safe for the Jedi, or safe from them. Doubtless she is under surveillance—she'll have to keep an eye out, ascertain who or how—so any behavior out of character for Sen Tethis will only raise suspicions and make it more difficult for her to . . . what? Give them the slip? And then what?

Her old allies would gladly kill her. The Jedi want to milk her for information—though how they planned to do so given that they tried to _destroy her mind_ is anyone's guess.

No—better to play along, for now. She needs time to recover, to gain some semblance of mental stability.

She can't think of herself as Revan. If she wants to survive this, if she wants to win, then for the time being she must be Sen, criminal turned cryptographer, constructed of the remnants of the Jedi Council's poorly grafted-on mask.

It still feels like a betrayal.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	4. Diagnostics

_In which the small army of OCs is expanded. A wild Tutorial Guy appears._

**o.O.o**

Revan heads down to Communications fueled by three hours of fitful sleep, a cup of caf that tried to eat the mug, and a great deal of spite. She spent the night attempting to comb through her memories for clues as to what has been erased and why. She was . . . less successful than she hoped.

Therefore—this. Keeping up appearances, playing the Council's game, to whatever end.

She settles at her workstation, makes small talk with Veska and Pol, and then lets Sen Tethis's implanted skills run on autopilot, the bulk of her attention turned inward.

Revan studied mental shielding during her days as an apprentice at the Jedi enclave on Dantooine—not because it was part of her training, but because it was the only way to keep Master Dorak from discovering her forays into the forbidden areas of the Jedi Archives. Later, on Coruscant under Master Kae's tutelage, she delved into other, older techniques, predating the Order or originating from sects and philosophies labeled Grey at best and Dark at worst by the High Council.

Her preferred defense is the equivalent of a psychic wall slamming down in front of any prospective invader. It necessitates awareness of one's emotions—incorporates them into the wall, in fact, along with raw willpower—as well as one's vulnerabilities. A wall is no use if an enemy can simply climb over it, or crawl under, or tap a shatterpoint and watch it all come crumbling down.

As such, Revan is quite familiar with the means of examining her own mind.

Whoever did this to her was annoyingly thorough. She doubts it was the Jedi Council alone—their work is at least obvious. She can tell what is programmed behavior and what is not, and choose to follow one or the other as the situation demands; even now, though, sections of memory remain foggy and indistinct, for all she knows they are truth. But there are other places that feel raw as new wounds, as though someone took a butcher's knife to her mind and hacked out the parts they didn't like.

Time and effort will burn off the haze over Revan's life, if not the block separating her from the Force. She has little option but to try. The gaps do not seem quite so easy to deal with. Poking at them leaves her with a feeling of revulsion. Something is warning her not to look too closely.

As if she's ever listened to such warnings.

The only way to fill in the gaps in her memory, she concludes, is to retrace her own steps. Between archived news holos, what little she remembers personally, and the intel at her fingertips as a cryptographer, she should be able to piece together the path she took at the end of the Mandalorian Wars.

Initial work can easily be done here, aboard the _Monument_. But afterwards, if plain data is not enough to trigger her recollections, she may have to go personally. She rather suspects she will. And that is a problem—the Jedi will never leave her alone long enough to slip away on some journey of self-rediscovery.

Well, then. She'll just have to get rid of them somehow.

It occurs to her—a thought heavily flavored by the guilt-ridden ex-criminal in her, hoping for a new life, a fresh start—that she could just . . . not go looking. She could learn to live with a mind full of holes. Come to some kind of acceptance of who she is now, rather than dwelling on who she was.

The side of her that is purely Revan starts snarling at the mere thought of _accepting_ this. Revan despises that kind of willful ignorance—the same as what plagues the Jedi, leaves them stagnant and fossilized in the midst of a violently changing galaxy. She would rather know the truth, no matter how unpleasant or undesirable it might be. Ignorance is weakness. And Revan is not weak.

"Oi, Sen, whatever did that chair do to you?"

Sen snaps out of her reverie, startled. She glances down and blinks. Her hands are clamped around the armrests of her chair, so tightly that the plastic is squeaking against the metal frame. Hurriedly she relaxes them, pulls a grimace. "Just frustrated," she says. "Code's giving me trouble this morning."

"Augh, I know," Pol says, making a face. "Iden's laughing at us, I know it."

"At you, maybe," mutters Veska.

Sen snickers and returns to her work.

**o.O.o**

The Jedi Guardians arrive around mid-morning. Two of them—a significant asset in this war, pulled from battle on her behalf. Bastila continues to underestimate her importance to the Republic war effort. It's . . . sobering.

She meets them in the hangar as they disembark their transport, also bringing arms and ammunition for the troopers stationed on the _Tempest_. The first is a tall Bith, his steps long and gliding; the other is a dark-haired human who radiates resentment. Bastila gets the feeling it's mostly directed at her.

"Padawan Shan. I am Jedi Master Iylos," says the Bith, with a graceful bow. "This is Knight Chena Oslar, my former apprentice."

Bastila returns the gesture. "You honor me with your presence, Master Jedi. I—I am not entirely certain what to expect."

"We'll follow you," Chena says. "Everywhere. Because apparently the Council thinks you're more valuable than our troops down on Ersanne."

"I'm sure the Council has its reasons," Iylos says placidly.

Chena sniffs. "Right, _Battle Meditation_. You're, what, a walking morale boost?"

Bastila glowers at her. "Perhaps," she says. "The Admiral seems to think I'm useful enough. And what are you, pray tell, that your presence on Ersanne was deemed unnecessary?"

Chena opens her mouth to retort. Iylos steps in before she can speak. "Peace, the both of you. We are all Jedi, and we carry out our duties as the Council has assigned them. Each of us has our own strength, and our own purpose. We cannot afford to quarrel over whose is most _necessary_."

Chagrined, Bastila bows again and says, "You are right, Master. I apologize, Knight Oslar, for my outburst."

". . . Likewise," Chena grinds out.

Iylos inclines his head. "There we are. That was not so difficult, was it?"

Bastila has a bad feeling about this.

**o.O.o**

Excusing herself from dinner with Veska and Pol after her shift, not particularly interested in meeting the rest of Iden's herd of nerds, Sen makes her way down to the training room. It overlooks the main docking bay, the top half of an entire wall of the chamber converted to windows for a stunning vista of the inside of the bay doors. She supposes it's much prettier when the bay is open, but as they're currently in hyperspace en route to the Corellian sector, leaving the door cracked would be most unwise.

Republic soldiers are arrayed about the training room. Most of them clump together in small groups—squads, she'd guess, laughing and joking with each other as they spar or stretch or exercise. A pack of ensigns jogs around the perimeter of the chamber, passing Sen in a blur of sweat and skin and panting breaths. She waits for the last of them to go, then makes her way further inward.

Her goal here is simple: learn what she's capable of. If the Council has suppressed her ability to defend herself physically along with her ability to use the Force . . . She's hoping they haven't. She's very much hoping they haven't.

It would be just like them, though, she thinks sullenly. Build an identity from the ground up, but leave out the parts that would make it realistic—Sen Tethis is supposed to have been a smuggler, for stars's sakes. Not exactly a peaceful profession.

She twists her mouth sideways, then brightens. There—three troopers sparring with practice swords. Excellent.

"Watch your feet!" shouts one of them, as her immediate opponent fumbles his lunge. She parries and disarms him with quick, economical movements, then lowers her blade and sighs. "Run that again," she says. "And this time, try not to stomp around like a drunken bantha."

"Yeah, no," the man grumbles, bending to retrieve his sword. "Think I'll let Trask take this one for the team."

"You gotta practice, Olen," the third soldier says. "You might be a great shot with a blaster, but half the Sith armada uses energy shields these days."

Olen snorts. "Oh, come on, I'm good enough to hold my own and you know it."

The woman smiles slyly. "Just not against me. Or Trask." Her gaze slides sideways, and locks onto Sen. "Hi," she says, dubious. "Don't think we know you . . ."

She steps forward. "You wouldn't. I just transferred her a couple days ago," she says easily, offering her hand. "Sen Tethis."

"Uh, Evi Mallen," the soldier replies, shaking it. She jerks her head over her shoulder. "Trask Ulgo and Olen Kast. What can we do for you?"

"Mind if I have a turn?"

". . . Why?"

"Well, I'm new," says Sen, "and I want to know how I measure up to you Republic types."

"You say that like you're not," Trask says, frowning.

She shrugs. "I didn't volunteer. I got impressed. Big difference."

"Sounds like there's quite a story in there," says Olen.

Sen winks at him. "You win, I might tell it."

Olen starts grinning. "Oh, you're on, mystery girl."

Trask and Evi retreat a few steps to give them space; Trask hands her his sword and says, "Good luck."

She hefts the practice sword with a sinking feeling. The balance is like nothing Revan can remember—because Revan trained with a lightsaber, not a vibroblade. And lightsaber blades handle completely differently from metal ones. They have no inherent mass, for one thing, being made of plasma bent into a specific shape by an energy field. For ease of use—and for a certain definition of "ease"—they're fitted with a hilt gyroscope to simulate a weighted blade, but without the Force it's damned tricky to wield a lightsaber.

So when Olen attacks her flank and Sen defaults to muscle memory, it ends . . . badly. Her usual fighting style was based on a combination of speed and strength, both augmented by the Force. But she's been comatose or sedentary for weeks, and she does not have the Force to draw upon, so direct blocking results in jarred hands and a bruised shoulder as Olen's sword edge bashes her guard aside.

Sen skitters back, shaking out her arm, eyes narrowing. All right. Trying again. Olen comes in for another attack, this time aimed at her head—she raises her sword to deflect the blow at an angle only to find her left side stinging. Last-second change of direction. She didn't see it coming.

"Come on," she growls, anger simmering beneath her skin. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Look, it's no fun if I'm beating on a defenseless civilian," Olen says.

_Fuck_ that. She darts in, lands a glancing blow to his upper arm that he ignores.

"I think that's enough," he says, stepping back, half-lowering his sword.

"No," she says.

He shrugs— _your funeral _—and goes into a sloppy but bloody terrifying hail of strikes. She staggers, grits her teeth, holds her ground. Why is she fighting fair, again? Oh, right—she's under no obligation to do so. She catches his next strike near the hilt of her sword, absorbs the force of it, reaches up to grab his hand and twist the hilt out of his grip.__

__"What the—oh for the love of—" Olen lets her, then shifts his hand, takes her wrist, spins her around with his arm around her throat. Sen snarls and struggles in vain—he's too strong and too heavy for her to move, and he's leaning back too far for her to drop into a solid stance; her feet are barely touching the ground. She hisses out through her teeth. No, no, _no_ , she's better than this, she could have _destroyed_ him, she would have, she will—_ _

__"Easy," a voice says. Trask. "Olen, let go, would you?"_ _

__"Not until I'm sure she's not gonna bite me if I do," Olen rumbles._ _

__Sen stiffens, then slumps. "Sorry," she croaks, hating Olen, hating the Jedi. Mostly the Jedi. Olen is just a proxy._ _

__He lets go. She slinks a few steps away, flexing the wrist he'd grabbed. She looks up at him, and Trask, and Evi, and forces a smile. "Guess I'm out of practice," she says with a little laugh._ _

__"Have you even trained at all?" Evi says bluntly. "'Cause that looked like you were just flailing around."_ _

___I can throttle you with my mind._ No, actually, she can't, and even if she could she probably shouldn't. She laughs again, and it feels like choking. "Yeah, well. Never said I was good at this, did I?" _But I was, I am, I am one of the_ best—_ _

__"Sen," Evi says, shaking her head, "you're not a fighter. Don't pretend to be."_ _

__Why, hello, there, humiliation. Her face burns. Yet another reason why expressionless masks are a wonderful thing—nobody can see you blush. "Thanks anyway," she says through a rapidly-constricting throat. "I appreciate your time."_ _

__She walks away, shaking hands stuffed into her pockets, breathing deep and slow until she no longer wants to kill something._ _

____

__**o.O.o**__

 _ _Bastila's head jerks up from her desktop as an all-too-familiar anger comes to a boil at the back of her mind. "Oh, no," she says. "Please, don't do this . . ."_ _

__Focusing on the bond, she tries to ascertain what prompted Revan's sudden rage. Without mutual cooperation, as between a bonded Master and Padawan, it's impossible to sense the specifics, but Bastila does get the general feeling that whatever happened, it did not end in death, torture, or permanent maiming. So that's . . . something._ _

__As the minutes pass, the anger begins to fade, and Bastila relaxes marginally. Not for the first time, she wishes Zhar were here. But this is her responsibility, her battle—she will shoulder the burden if it kills her, because she is a Jedi, and this is her duty._ _

__Struck by sudden inspiration, Bastila retreats from her desk to the floor of her quarters, sitting cross-legged with her hands turned palm-upward on her knees. She cracks her neck and winces. Sleeping at the desk is probably not very good for her. Putting her discomfort aside, she sinks into meditation—somewhere between her normal restorative practice and the immersive omniscience of Battle Meditation. But this is focused upon one individual alone._ _

__Bastila concentrates, filling her mind with peaceful thoughts, letting them flow like a gentle current down the bond. And gradually, the anger simmers down to clear calm._ _

__Bastila smiles and returns to herself, fatigued but satisfied. Perhaps this bond will not be as much of a liability as she first believed. Perhaps she _can_ use it—not just to coax out information on the Sith, but to help Sen remain in the Light. To prevent Darth Revan from ever returning._ _

__There's a knock at her door. Bastila winces when she places the presence outside—Chena, still thoroughly displeased with her current assignment. Rising, Bastila answers the door with an air of resignation. "Yes?" she says._ _

__"Dodonna wants us in the war room for a consultation."_ _

__"Now?"_ _

__"Yes, now," snaps Chena. "Does the Fleet Admiral usually let you take your time in these situations?"_ _

__"Usually," Bastila says coolly, "she specifies when and why, as there is a certain degree of trust between us." _Which you lack_ goes unsaid._ _

__"Oh, right. She trusts you to kiss ass and make everyone feel all warm and fuzzy inside."_ _

__"If you think—" Bastila breaks off. She should not engage, even when provoked. She should be better than these petty quarrels. She should discover _why_ Chena is so hostile, and work to reach an understanding. She really, really should. Just . . . not right now. "Let's go," she says instead, and brushes past the older Knight on her way through the narrow doorway. Chena doesn't quite turn it into a deliberate collision, but it comes close._ _

__What a delightful woman._ _

____

__**o.O.o**__

 _ _She sees Trask Ulgo again in the mess hall the next day, eating alone. Part of her wants to turn straight around and pretend yesterday never happened, save face, go about her business, forget about it all._ _

__It's a very large part. The problem is that yesterday _did_ happen, and she is going to get herself killed the moment the fighting starts. And it _will_ start, she is certain of that—if not while she plays cryptographer, then once she abandons this farce for good. If she doesn't reconnect to the Force by then, she'll be stuck using blasters, a set of skills she does not have to unlearn—but this during a war fought at relatively close range once boots hit the ground, as energy shields get better and better._ _

__She's a decent shot. Not a great one, but good enough to manage without the Force._ _

__She's a terrible swordswoman like this._ _

__Bracing herself, she plasters a sheepish smile over her face and wanders over to Trask's table. He looks up at her approach and visibly winces. "Oh, hi, Sen," he says warily._ _

__"Hey," she says. "Listen, I wanted to apologize for—"_ _

__"No, no, it's fine, really. Kinda scared us, though. Well, me, anyway. You didn't look too happy with how that all turned out, you know?"_ _

__"Yeah," she says, dragging the word out. "I . . . wasn't. And I reacted badly. Which was stupid of me, and I'm sorry. But I was wondering if you'd be willing to, uh, help."_ _

__"Help?" Trask echoes._ _

__She says bluntly, "Can you teach me how to use a vibroblade?"_ _

__Trask stares at her. "Um. Why do you need to learn?"_ _

__"Because we're at war. I might have a desk job, but I'd really rather not be caught helpless if the worst happens. And you saw me—absolutely no idea what I'm doing."_ _

__Trask makes a noise that she tentatively labels _guiltily amused_. "Right, yeah. That's . . ." He sighs. "You really want to do this?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__". . . Okay, then. First thing you gotta do is build up some strength. A sword—even a vibroblade—won't do you much good if you don't have the muscle to actually damage the other guy."_ _

__"And then?"_ _

__"Well, we'll be patrolling the Mid Rim for the next few weeks, I think. Should be long enough to give you a few lessons—we'll need to work out times first. What's your contact info?"_ _

__She rattles it off, and he scribbles it on a napkin. "Thank you," she says fervently._ _

__"Hey, no problem. I hear you learn a lot by teaching, too." He wavers, then says, "You want to sit down or something?"_ _

__"I can't, I've got messages to crack. But I appreciate it."_ _

__"No problem." Trask winces. "Already said that. Sorry."_ _

__Sen laughs, inwardly rolling her eyes. "See you around, Trask."_ _

__"Yeah, you too," he calls after her._ _

__She practically skips as she leaves the mess for Communications. She doesn't, because that would be one indignity too many, but it's a close thing._ _

____

__**o.O.o**__

 _ _Dodonna, as it turns out, wants Bastila's input on where she can be most effectively used against the Sith. "I know that you've been working mostly with the Fleet," she says, "but are you able to assist our ground forces as well? Several theaters of war desperately need a push to tip the balance in our favor."_ _

__Bastila experiences a sudden, vivid mental image of herself as a talisman for the Republic, shuffled from battle to battle to bring good fortune and swift victory wherever she goes. They will use her until she is used up. Already she dreads using her Battle Meditation, dreads connecting to so many only to feel their lives drowned out by the slaughter. And yet she cannot refuse—what is her comfort, her happiness, in comparison to the thousands if not millions of lives she might save?_ _

__"I am at your disposal, Admiral," she says quietly. "Wherever you think I'll do the most good, I can try."_ _

__"Knight Oslar, Master Iylos, can you defend Bastila if we dispatch her to, say, Centares, to assist the 307th?"_ _

__"We will do our best," says Iylos, behind her and to the right, a soft-spoken shadow._ _

__"Then we'll lay in a course for the Maldrood sector. Breaking the Sith hold there will open the Perlemian Trade Route to Republic ships, granting us access to many more endangered systems." Dodonna smiles. "That will be all."_ _

____

__**o.O.o**__

 _ _They start that night. Sen can only be grateful that the training room is nearly deserted. The last thing she wants is an audience for defeat after embarrassing defeat._ _

__"See, that there's your problem," Trask says after their fourth bout. "You fight like you're a lot stronger than you really are. You keep trying to hack your way through my guard, but since I've got about twice your muscle mass, that's . . . kind of ineffective."_ _

__"No kidding," Sen mutters, picking up her practice sword. Another bout, another disarmament to look forward to. She glances up at him and says, "So what's the alternative?"_ _

__"Avoid trying to out-muscle anyone," says Trask._ _

__"So . . . be quick, then?"_ _

__"Not quite. There are styles that rely more on redirecting an attacker, rather than stopping them. Use their momentum against them. Basically, help them take _themselves_ down."_ _

__She arches an eyebrow at him. "Defense as offense."_ _

__"Yep. I'm not an expert at it, but I've learned some. Want to try?"_ _

__"All right . . ." It sounds a bit like Soresu, the third form of lightsaber combat—heavily defensive, virtually impenetrable when used by a master, but rather weak when it comes to actually killing or disabling one's opponent. Djem So also claims to turn an attack back on its source, but in her experience it tends to go for ripostes rather than redirects._ _

__Trask's style sounds underhanded. Sneaky. Not the vicious overwhelming force of Juyo, her preferred form, but she's not opposed to trying something new. She'll try anything at this point._ _

__"Okay. Let's start with some basic counters . . ."_ _

__

__

**o.O.o**

__

__

_tbc_

____


	5. Planetside

_In which Dodonna and Bastila get clever._

**o.O.o**

In the briefing room of the _Tempest_ , tempers are running rather high.

"What?" Chena bursts out. "You can't mean that we'll be staying behind!"

"Your first priority is protecting Bastila," Dodonna says in a voice like steel. "And since Bastila will not be engaged in direct combat, neither will you. Is that understood, Knight Oslar?"

"But—"

Master Iylos's psychic warning is sharp enough for even Bastila to feel. Chena visibly winces, bowing her head, biting her tongue. "Yes, Admiral," she says.

"May the Force be with you, Master Jedi," says Dodonna, unruffled. She turns on her heel and walks away, leaving Chena to fume, Iylos to disapprove of her fuming, and Bastila to heartily wish that she had been assigned a different set of Guardians.

With only hours left until the fleet drops out of hyperspace and engages the Sith, Bastila retreats to her quarters to prepare herself. Communications with the Republic's 307th have been spotty, but Dodonna seems confident they have enough information to work with.

The Sith chokehold on Centares cuts off Republic access to a large portion of the Perlemian Trade Route, delaying the movement of troops and resources by days or weeks. The planet's main transport hub, Etaron, lacks any clear military targets—there are no facilities to bomb from orbit or atmo that are not surrounded or filled by prohibitive numbers of civilians. It would seem that the Sith have taken their cues from Republic tactics during the early Mandalorian Wars—although this time there's little chance of the enemy simply ignoring the collateral damage in the name of victory. The Republic, Bastila is proud to see confirmed here, has certain lines it will not cross.

The 307th itself is pinned down ten klicks outside of Etaron, in the foothills of the jagged Daryne Mountains. An energy shield protects them from orbital bombardment, but not a ground attack; their numbers have thinned considerably during skirmishes with Sith troops. They have enough gunships and troop transports to empty the entire base of personnel, but once they clear the shield, they're painfully vulnerable.

Therefore—distraction.

**o.O.o**

Two hours of much-needed sleep and a cup of gritty caf later, Bastila checks her messages one last time. Master Zhar has sent her a brief description of his newest class of initiates, who seem a rambunctious and disorderly rabble to Bastila's eye. Still, it's good to hear of life going on as it always has, the Order ensuring its continuance for another generation.

She's also received a confirmation of her transport number and pilot from Dodonna, and a string of numbers from an anonymous address. The plaintext is about as informative as the cipher, to be honest.

_REVAN REMEM BERSN OTHIN GSTIL LEVER YTHIN GFINE_

Bastila disposes of the transcribed message and frowns. The updates are heartening, yes, but woefully spare. She would prefer a more comprehensive look at Revan's status than a constant stream of vague _everything fine._ Quickly, she scribbles out an appropriate response, encodes it, and sends it on its way.

The ship-wide intercom crackles. "Forty minutes to the Centares system," a voice says coolly. "All pilots to their stations. All medical personnel on standby. Forty minutes to contact."

She takes a deep breath. The plan does not call for her to directly face the enemy. It should prove no different from any of the battles she's experienced with the Fleet—easier, perhaps, as the distances involved are much smaller. Tens of kilometers rather than tens of thousands.

All she has to do is help nine hundred or so soldiers, rather than the thousands involved in a space battle.

And yet she's afraid.

Bastila gathers her gear and meets Chena and Iylos just outside the secondary hangar. Iylos is, as ever, calm and collected; Chena's visible agitation puts Bastila on edge as she paces back and forth in front of the blast doors.

"Are you ready?" Iylos asks gently.

Bastila never feels ready for this. "Yes," she says. She wishes it were Master Owyn here, not these strangers.

"Finally," mutters Chena.

"If I might venture a suggestion," says Iylos, in much sharper tones, "antagonizing each other will not win us this or any other battle. _Stop it,_ young one. Your behavior is unbecoming of a Jedi."

Red-faced, Chena mumbles something contrite. Bastila wonders what she was like as an apprentice. More to the point, she wonders how anyone so resentful and abrasive ever managed to be made a Jedi Knight.

They meet their pilot at the boarding ramp of their innocuous transport. He's in his mid-thirties, brown-haired, sporting an unsightly yellow-orange flight jacket of no design Bastila has ever seen. "Master Jedi. I'm Lieutenant Carth Onasi," the man says, snapping off a sharp salute.

"Admiral Dodonna tells me you're one of the Republic's best pilots," Iylos says.

"I am," Onasi says matter-of-factly. "I'll get you down to Centares safe and sound."

"I should hope so," says Bastila, "or this entire endeavor will have been for nothing."

Onasi raises an eyebrow at her. "With respect, ma'am, you haven't seen me fly."

They board the transport, an unmarked craft in the angular style of Mid Rim shipyards. There's one seat next to Onasi's, and two situated just behind at knee-knocking distance; Iylos serenely takes the front, leaving Bastila and Chena to clamber into the back. Bastila folds her hands in her lap and attempts to give the appearance of total composure. Chena's long limbs prove a liability—her legs jut out at an angle to the back of the pilot's chair, and she crosses her arms with a fierce scowl as the canopy descends and locks with a faint hiss.

"Hope everybody used the 'fresher," Onasi says cheerfully.

"This is not an appropriate time for—for that kind of humor!" Bastila bursts out.

"Sorry, ma'am, just looking out for my passengers' personal comfort," he says, unrepentant.

Chena snorts.

" _Five minutes to Centares space,_ " the cool voice announces.

Bastila's fingers tighten convulsively. The anticipation is not actually worse than an actual battle. There's very little that _is_ worse, but during combat there's no time to think. No time for her fears to burrow deep into her mind like parasites.

 _There is no emotion, there is peace_. Cold comfort, sometimes, in the hideously elastic moments just before the firing starts, but true nonetheless. The Force buoys her up, keeps her afloat even as the fear builds to fever pitch.

"Sixty seconds," Onasi says distantly.

_There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion—_

"Nervous?" Chena says.

"Please, don't," Bastila says shortly.

Chena huffs. "Look, I've heard the stories. Don't know how much I believe them, but if half of them are true, you've got nothing to worry about. You've done this before. You can do it again."

Bastila stares at her. "Oh. Erm. Thank you."

"Dropping out of hyperspace in three . . . two . . . one . . ."

The hum of the _Tempest_ 's hyperdrive cuts out, replaced by the staccato pulse of its turbolasers. The bay doors groan open. Bastila gets a glimpse of the blue-green sphere of Centares before Onasi takes off along with a full squadron of Republic starfighters.

The plan is fairly simple: Dodonna's fleet will serve as a diversion until the 307th can retake Etaron. Bastila's presence and abilities are no longer so secret; the Sith will expect her to remain aboard the _Tempest_ and use her Battle Meditation to keep the fight in the Republic's favor. As such, most of their attention and firepower will be focused on the space battle rather than Centares' surface.

In theory.

Bastila swallows hard as Onasi guides their transport towards the planet. The first deaths prickle the edges of her awareness, less pronounced than they would be if she were connected to the fleets. Even so, she winces as a blast from a Sith cruiser punches through the center of a fighter squadron, vaporizing three and disabling two more.

The transport judders. Several alarms begin shrilling. Bastila grips her harness and closes her eyes.

"Dammit. They've spotted us," Onasi says. "Guess a single nondescript rust bucket is kinda suspicious in the middle of a kriffing battlefield—"

"Please be quiet," Bastila says.

"Excuse me?"

"I am trying to make sure the Sith fighters currently pursuing us find better things to do with themselves. You are interfering with my concentration."

"What is this, some kind of—"

"Jedi mind trick thing," Chena says airily. "You might want to listen to her, Lieutenant; she's probably saving our lives—"

"Ahem," says Bastila.

Chena snickers but complies. Bastila does not understand her, at all, and doesn't have the mental space to speculate—heightening Onasi's reflexes and awareness while fogging the minds of their Sith hunters is quite enough for now. Harder still is resisting the urge to extend her connection to every ship within reach. A great many, as the Republic fleet dropped out of hyperspace practically on top of the Sith. The problem is that suddenly _ceasing_ her Battle Meditation—which she will have to do when and if they reach the 307th—might clue in the Sith that she is not with the fleet.

Bastila hisses through her teeth as the Sith fighters are attacked from behind by a Republic cruiser with a sharp-eyed quad laser gunner—several die within seconds, and the others panic and scatter into disarray, breaking off their pursuit to be picked off.

"Wow," says Onasi. "That was . . . wow. They're usually not that stupid."

"You've never fought with me before, have you?" Bastila says with a half-smile.

"Nope." He swoops the transport around a chunk of debris from one of the damaged capital ships, then executes an elegant dive into the clear space of Centares' gravity well. "They called me in special for this, said they wanted— _fracking hell!_ "

A beam of coruscating red light slashes up from the blue-green crescent before them. Onasi jinks to port—not fast enough to avoid the very edge of the beam. Several more alarms begin to shriek.

"They've got a ground turbolaser?" he yelps, wrenching the ship sideways to avoid another blast.

"It would appear so," Iylos says. "How are our shields, Lieutenant?"

"What shields?"

Chena sits up, and promptly falls back as Onasi's maneuvering presses her into her seat. "Turbolasers are awful at targeting small ships," she says. "Firing rate's too slow—how is this bastard locking on us?"

Bastila reaches out through the Force. There—a whirlpool, fouled by the dark side, thick and hateful. "Force-sensitive," she says distantly.

"Can you stop them?"

She's trying, encouraging the gunner to become distracted, to hesitate. The Force-sensitive's mental shields are tight, though, and familiar. Like Revan's, they will not be breached by a show of psychic strength. "No," she admits.

"Great," Onasi mutters. "Okay. New plan."

Their ship heaves to starboard, skimming the fringe of the Centarian atmosphere somewhere between dusk and full night. Bastila focuses on Onasi to the exclusion of all else, not knowing what he intends to do but trusting that he'll do _something_.

"Come on come on come on come on," he says under his breath.

Bastila's eyes go wide as she sees what's ahead. Fragments and chunks of a large ship are falling towards the planet, building speed, glowing with heat, trailing smoke—Onasi takes them in perilously close as the turbolaser fires again.

"You're not—" Chena begins.

"Yep," says Onasi. "Sorry."

He slams on the retrothrusters, bringing the transport to a lateral standstill. Then, as the explosion of one of the fragments rocks the ship, he cuts all power—everything but minimal life support.

They fall.

"An . . . interesting plan," says Iylos, sounding nauseous. "I will attempt to mask our presences in case the Sith are unconvinced."

"Good, 'cause I'd hate to have gone to all that trouble to make us look dead for nothing."

**o.O.o**

Onasi reengages the engines far too close to the surface for Bastila's peace of mind, although Chena seems delighted by the entire experience. They fly low over the dark plains until they reach the Republic base, a smattering of low fortified structures under a soft-glowing violet energy dome. Passing through the shield raises the hairs on the back of Bastila's neck, but it otherwise has no effect.

They touch down on the landing pad among the 307th's grounded gunships. Onasi pops open the canopy, and the four of them climb out of the ship with varying degrees of relief, taking care to avoid the friction-heated sides of the unshielded vessel.

Bastila inhales. The air is somewhat thinner than she is used to, as they are nearly two kilometers above sea level on a world with just below average atmospheric oxygen. It smells of summer and fuel and ozone and warm earth—Bastila tries to remember how long it's been since she breathed a real atmosphere, one not scoured of all character by constant recycling and air scrubbers. This place reminds her of Dantooine. Of home, if a Jedi can have such a thing.

An aide-de-camp jogs up to them, eyes shining with renewed hope. "Oh, thank the Force, you made it! Padawan Shan, Colonel Tullan is waiting for you in the command center," he says.

"Lead the way, then," says Bastila.

Colonel Tullan, a middle-aged Kiffar with green facial tattoos and scarred armor, is more reserved in his greeting, giving the Jedi a smart salute; they bow as Onasi copies the Colonel.

"I won't lie, Master Jedi," Tullan says in a voice like gargled rocks, "the situation down here is bad. I'd guess you've already encountered the Sith battery on your way in?"

"We did," Bastila says. "And unfortunately, that encounter may have compromised our element of surprise. Hopefully not, but . . ." It all depends on whether or not the Sith believe them truly dead.

Tullan grimaces. "Understood. We'll have to move quickly, then. The faster we take Etaron, the better."

"How soon can you depart?" asks Iylos.

The grimace becomes a dangerous grin. "Half an hour to get everyone awake and into the gunships. That soon enough for you, Master Jedi?"

"Excellent."

Tullan turns to Bastila. "Can we expect your assistance during this fight?"

"Yes," she says, "although I will not be joining you on the front lines. My abilities require a more . . . serene environment to function best."

"How far can you go?"

"Several thousand kilometers, so you're in no danger of going out of range," she says.

"All right. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Sergeant Mersh's squad, just in case."

"That will be more than adequate, thank you."

Tullan nods. "Then let's take back the city."

**o.O.o**

Republic soldiers board their gunships for quick egress from the base, Colonel Tullan directing them. Bastila, Chena, and Iylos remain in the command center among the holo-readouts and comms equipment, connecting them to the Fleet, while the Rodian sergeant stations her troops at choke points within the structure.

Bastila contacts Admiral Dodonna before the 307th moves out, to inform her of the Sith turbolaser. "It's going to tear our gunships apart the instant they clear the shield," she says. "Is there any way to draw its attention towards the battle above?"

". . . We're taking heavy casualties up here," Dodonna says slowly. "I'm reluctant to divert any of our ships at this point, not while we're in such a tenuous position."

"If we take Etaron, the Sith will be unable to refuel or resupply from the planet. And if we can destroy or commandeer that turbolaser, so much the better."

"You think you can do that?"

"Yes," says Bastila.

Dodonna hesitates, then audibly sighs. "All right. I'm sending the _Unconquered_ and a squadron of bombers your way. If you can, please . . . help them."

"Thank you, Admiral. ETA?"

"Ten minutes."

"Shan out." She switches the comms channel to Tullan's. "Did you catch all that?"

"I did. Acknowledged, Master Jedi. Ten minutes."

It seems to work—the incoming Republic ships draw the turbolaser's fire, the 307th gunships take off unmolested, and everything appears to be going according to plan.

Then, two klicks out from the base, a dozen Republic lives flare and disappear in Bastila's mind. Her breath hitches. _Missiles and gunfire, panicked shouting—_

"They knew we were coming," she says rapidly, standing up as the comm line explodes into curses and reports of Sith tanks and infantry lying in wait in the trees. "They were waiting for us, they knew we made it down here . . . and they're coming this way."

"Wait, what just happened?" Onasi demands as Mersh orders her troops to stand ready.

"Ambush, that's what," Chena says. "Which means they're not going to just sit around shooting at the sky—"

Bastila flinches. Onasi makes an abortive movement as if he intended to take her arm in support. She pinches the bridge of her nose. "We lost another gunship," she murmurs. "Turbolaser. They won't miss."

"Even with your mind-thing?" says Onasi.

"I can make the pilots faster to react, but I can't affect the gunner, I told you!"

"Easy, Jedi. There's gotta be something else we can do," Sergeant Mersh says clippedly, her antennae twitching in agitation. "That's what you're here for, right?"

Bastila glares at the Rodian. "From here, I can do nothing!"

"So we go somewhere else," Chena says. "The regular troops'll have a hell of a time facing down a Force-sensitive even if they do get to Etaron. But three Jedi? We've got a chance."

"Fight our way to the gunner on our own, you mean?"

"We've been doing this kind of thing for the past year, Shan." Chena watches her, eyes going narrow. "You're afraid."

"Well, yes," she snaps, "seeing as the one time I did fight the enemy face to face, four Jedi Knights, including my own Master, were killed by a bloody Sith Lord!"

"Right," says Chena. "And then _you_ killed Darth Revan."

Bastila nearly chokes. _This_ is what they're saying? Bad enough that anyone knows about that particular, disastrous mission, but to believe Revan is dead and gone, and that _Bastila_ killed her? It's—it's unthinkable, absurd. The only reason she survived was because of Malak's sudden, if somewhat inevitable, betrayal. If she'd actually _fought_ Revan . . .

"That was—different," she says stiffly.

"No, it wasn't," insists Chena. "Listen, Shan, I don't care how scared you are right now and I don't care what you want. The Republic _needs_ this planet. It needs you."

"And hey," adds Onasi, "chances are, if they're manning a giant gun instead of slicing people to bits with their lightsaber, our Force-user isn't an actual full-on Sith Lord."

Bastila's hand drifts to the lightsaber at her side. Her fingers close around the cold cylinder, and she forces herself to let go of the instinctual panic. She can do this. No—she must do this. There is no choice, there is no fear, there is only necessity, and the Force guiding her.

"Very well," she says. "Onasi, can you pilot one of the remaining gunships?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Sergeant Mersh, gather your squad. Let's go."

**o.O.o**

The flight to Etaron is a tense, quiet affair. Bastila keeps the comm line open to the other gunships—some have broken through the Sith lines, but far too many are caught between the mountains and the tanks, unable to arc around for an easier approach now that they've been spotted. The turbolaser is less of a threat now that the ships have touched down behind the cover of a small rise, but they've only returned to the status quo before Bastila's arrival, albeit a few kilometers closer to their goal, now bolstered by Battle Meditation, and under threat from the Sith tanks.

Tullan listens to her terse description of the new plan and says only, "Do it. Fast."

Between cover of night, Battle Meditation, Iylos's Force concealment, and Onasi's pure skill, they avoid detection by the Sith, detouring far to the south of the ongoing skirmish before curving back towards Etaron. And then the towers of the city are rising before them like beacons in the dark, and Onasi glances back at her.

"Now," she says.

He opens the throttle to maximum, accelerating to nearly two hundred kilometers per hour while taking a madly weaving flight path towards the Hub, the spaceport's largest docking facility and the Sith's base of operations.

The turbolaser locks onto them. Fires. Onasi whoops as it misses by a hair's breadth, gaining them precious seconds while it recharges. In that time, they reach the Hub, decelerate, land, and disembark, Jedi, soldiers, and pilot alike sprinting away from the ship towards the cover of the surrounding buildings.

Not a moment too soon—the abandoned gunship explodes at their backs, nearly knocking Bastila off her feet. She stumbles into Iylos, who steadies her, then propels her forward with a gentle shove—they keep running.

"Everybody make it?" Mersh barks out as they slam up against the blast doors of the nearest enclosed hangar.

"Looks like, Sarge," one of her troops says. "Unless those morons from Blue Squad stowed away without tellin' us—"

"Cut the chatter."

"Cutting it, ma'am."

"Okay, so we're too close for them to shoot at now. How are we getting to the gunner?" asks Onasi.

Bastila extends her senses throughout the buildings around them—the turbolaser is situated just behind and above the ATC tower, she saw that from their approach. She notes the arrangement of Sith troopers at intervals throughout the twisting corridors of the warren-like facility. "We may need to fight our way through," she says reluctantly.

Chena ignites her blue lightsaber. "Let's not waste any time, then."

**o.O.o**

Mersh's squad, Onasi, Iylos, and Chena fight as if they've served together for years. Bastila feels oddly clumsy beside them, with so much of her attention taken up by maintaining her connection to the beleaguered 307th, the _Unconquered_ , and her immediate comrades. She manages to deflect blaster bolts back at their sources fairly well, the motions automatic after years of training, but she leaves the active offense and close-in fighting to the Jedi Guardians.

Sith soldiers fall before them, blank white corridor after blank white corridor blurring together in a haze of shining multicolored lights and dull brassy armor and screaming. She becomes an extension of the Force, flowing with the tides as they flow through her, without room for thought or fear.

The _Unconquered_ is in danger—she is with the fighter squadron soaring around to defend it, harrying any Sith ships that get too close. The tanks attacking the 307th are about to unleash a devastating barrage—she is with the drivers and the gunners, making them clumsy and indecisive, fouling their aim. A platoon of Sith soldiers awaits them around the next corner—she is with Iylos as he molds the Force into a wave that knocks them off their feet or into each other, she is with Mersh's squad as they pick off the fallen Sith, she is with Chena as she sprints towards the blast doors at the end of the hall and begins cutting through.

This is it.

The rest of the group catches up to Chena. She kicks the molten-edged circle of durasteel out of the way and ducks through the gap. Bastila sees-hears-feels the sniper's bolt as it lances towards the Guardian, sees-hears-feels her lightsaber rise to redirect it. It becomes a web of blue light protecting the gap as Iylos and Bastila clear it and join her in shielding Onasi, Mersh, and her troops from the deadly crossfire.

Bastila takes in the situation between flashes of yellow and red. The turbolaser mounted on the roof of a nearby building. The narrow walkway between their structure and the ATC tower. The surrounding rooftops, bristling with Sith, forming an impassable gauntlet. Under normal circumstances, that is.

Bastila sinks ever deeper into the Force. She gives Chena and Iylos a detached nod.

The two Guardians spring forward, leaving her to defend the squad as the last of them scrambles onto the walkway. Iylos leaps and Force-pushes several Sith off their rooftop, landing lightly and slicing his way through the rest until he can jump to the next roof. Chena mirrors him on the other side of the walkway as Mersh and her squad take out more distant foes with eerie accuracy.

They push on, gaining ground. They are too close and too low for the turbolaser to target them, but the gunner has ceased firing even at more accessible targets. The Force shudders. Something is wrong . . .

A lightsaber snap-hisses on nearby, and the Force boils with uncontrolled hate.

Bastila whirls to block the Sith's attack, her concentration slipping. The Sith grins at her, eyes clouded as if by cataracts, stained putrid orange in the light of their crossed blades. "Hello, little Jedi," he drawls.

" _Take him down!_ " Mersh roars.

The Sith laughs and bats the frenzied bolts away as if they're flies. Before Bastila can use his distraction to her advantage, he bursts into motion, somersaulting over her and landing in the midst of the soldiers. One, two, four are cut down within seconds. Bastila darts in, attacks him from behind. He parries carelessly and extends a hand, clenching it into a fist. Bastila chokes as the very air in her lungs is ripped away—the Sith lifts her half a meter off the ground as she scrabbles at her throat, desperate, panicking—

Blue light.

Chena and Iylos fall upon the Sith in an avalanche of brilliant blue. Even without Battle Meditation, they move in tandem, alternating between attacking the Sith and defending each other. They turn Ataru, traditionally an acrobatic form, into a veritable dance, spinning and leaping and tumbling together. The Sith snarls as he is driven back, away from Bastila; his focus broken, her windpipe opens and she falls to the walkway grating on her hands and knees, wheezing.

"C'mon, get up," Onasi says, tugging at her. "Shan, you've got to stand up, we have to secure that turbolaser . . ."

"You heard the flyboy," Mersh grates. "Get to it."

She looks at the sergeant and her jaw drops. "Oh—your arm—"

Mersh's right arm hangs limp at her side, cut to the bone at the shoulder by the Sith's lightsaber. She shakes her head. "No time for that. Up."

Bastila takes Onasi's hand for support. Staggering slightly, she surveys what's left of Mersh's troops—five of them, two wounded but not fatally, plus Mersh herself. The Sith is still fighting the Guardians, arcs of blue and red searing through the darkness.

She reestablishes a thin connection to the 307th outside the city—no longer pinned down by the turbolaser, they've regrouped and are pushing forward, if slowly. The _Unconquered_ —still flying, battered but surviving the assault of no less than three Sith frigates.

"You okay?" asks Onasi.

"I'm fine," says Bastila. She looks each of the remaining Republic soldiers in the eye, one by one. "We're going to win this," she says, impressing upon them a confidence she doesn't feel.

"If we get to that damn gun," says Mersh. She picks up her fallen blaster in her good hand and leads the way forward.

They make their way over the catwalk under sporadic fire from enemy reinforcements as Chena and Iylos drive the Sith onto an adjacent rooftop. The turbolaser's seat stands empty, surrounded by blinking readouts and targeting computers.

The chatty private gives it an assessing look. "Who wants to shoot shit?"

"Thanks for volunteering," Mersh says, and he grins and hops into the chair. The sergeant adds, "Give Tullan's boys a window, would you?"

"With pleasure," says the private, directing the turbolaser towards the 307th's attackers.

" _Bastila!_ "

Chena's distress surges through the Force. Bastila turns to Mersh. "Can you hold this position?" she says quickly.

The sergeant pauses only to fire a shot at an encroaching Sith trooper. "Yes."

"Hold it, then." She takes a running leap onto the rooftop where Chena and Iylos are dueling the Sith, dodging or deflecting blaster bolts as she goes—the Sith is still laughing, wearing the Guardians down, the dark side roiling around him.

"Is this really the best the Jedi can manage?" he cackles. "I had heard you were _capable_! This is practically a joke!"

"Joke's on you," Chena says, whirling into a vicious flensing attack, and Bastila would, under other circumstances, beat her head against the nearest hard surface, because _really_?

She dives into the fray from the side, catching the Sith off-guard. He barely blocks her strike in time, cursing.

He's outnumbered and outmatched, and he knows it. She can see it in his dulled eyes—a spark of desperation, the kind of suicidal defiance that leads to blood. The three Jedi herd him ever closer to the edge of the roof, and with every step he takes in retreat, he redoubles his ferocity.

"I—will—not—be—defeated!" he bellows, hammering at Chena's guard to no avail, forced to abandon his attack to prevent Bastila from removing a limb.

"Ambitious, aren't we," Iylos says evenly, lunging.

Without warning, the Sith bares his teeth and jumps high into the air. He flips over their heads, lands—before Bastila or the Guardians can react, he drives his lightsaber into Iylos's chest from behind.

Chena screams, a wordless cry of horror and denial, as Iylos falls forward and slides off the rooftop, landing in a crumpled heap ten meters below.

"Next," whispers the Sith.

Chena lurches towards him, Bastila scrambling to run interference as she leaves herself wide open to counterattack. The dance becomes a furious brawl. Chena hacks at the Sith's upraised lightsaber as if determined to break the plasma beam through sheer force of will while Bastila tries to sneak past his guard. He withstands Chena's assault and avoids Bastila's by pushing her aside with the Force. But this proves his undoing—his outstretched hand is well within Chena's striking range.

She removes it. He gasps, curls in over it instinctively. Chena kicks his remaining hand aside, lightsaber and all, and brings her blade down on the back of his neck.

The waves calm, the water clears with his death. Bastila lowers her lightsaber, numb.

"Iylos!" Chena shouts, running towards the roof's edge as if about to jump off. Bastila catches her arm, holds fast.

"Don't," she says, "please, don't, he's gone, there's nothing you can do—"

Tears stream down Chena's face. " _No!_ We, we have to—"

"We have to open the way for the 307th," Bastila says miserably. "Please, Chena. The mission . . ."

She stares at Bastila, breathing ragged and fast, lightsaber humming at her side. "I—yes," she says with difficulty, wiping her cheeks with the back of her free hand. "I know. I know."

"It's all right," Bastila says.

It's not.

**o.O.o**

In the end, it takes the Republic three days to more or less clear the Centares system of Sith. The 307th breaks through the line of tanks with the help of the captured turbolaser, and makes its way into Etaron. By noon, they've secured the Hub; by sundown, most of the Sith ground forces have surrendered.

The fleets continue to pound at each other for another day before the Sith go into full retreat, unable to refuel or resupply on Centares and unwilling to face Dodonna's finest with Bastila backing them. And then it's nothing but mop-up, rooting out the remnants.

When it's over, Lieutenant Onasi appropriates another transport from one of the hangars and flies Bastila and Chena back to the _Tempest_. Chena has barely said a word since her outburst after Iylos's death, killing Sith soldiers with mechanistic detachment as they tried to prevent the Republic capture of Etaron; now, she sits in silence, Iylos's lightsaber resting beside her own at her hip.

Bastila can think of a hundred platitudes to offer her, and none of them capture the truth of the matter. They are hollow, useless things in the face of such grief. _There is no emotion?_ That's a lie. Any being with a modicum of empathy can see otherwise.

She misses her master. He'd know what to say.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	6. Reconstruction

_In which Bastila worries and Revan gets a little drunk._

**o.O.o**

Her lessons with Trask progressing steadily, Sen's next priority is determining how the Jedi are keeping an eye on her. As incompetent as they can be, she doubts they'd be so foolish as to leave her completely unsupervised, even with apparent amnesia and cut off from the Force.

So—suspects. Her watchers must have strong ties to the Jedi Order. Bonds of loyalty—a debt owed, or perhaps just credits earned. That's an avenue of inquiry to pursue later. She can access personal account statements from her workstation if necessary, but money alone won't tell her much.

They must also be able to communicate with the Jedi. Thousands of transmissions stream to and from the _Monument_ at all hours, most of them reports and status updates and orders from on high. Personal messages tend to be sent in data packets at predetermined times, so they'll be relatively easy to intercept and read if she needs to.

But before she goes wading through the quagmire of inanity that is personal correspondence, she'll have to check for other transmissions. Anything out of the ordinary—patterns that shouldn't be there, unusual encryptions, references to Revan . . . She sets up a tracking program to report trends and outliers, leaves it running while she, Veska, and Pol dissect Sith communiqués.

It's a waiting game, now. She can keep her eyes open for odd behavior among the people she has regular contact with, but lacking the ability to gauge motivations and deceptions through the Force, she trusts hard data far more than her own instincts.

**o.O.o**

"Chena . . .?"

"I'm fine."

Bastila wants to contradict her, wants to force her to confront the grief that is visibly destroying her, but there's no time—the blast doors hiss open, and they enter the _Tempest_ 's war room where Dodonna is finishing her debriefing of several Republic officers via holocomm.

"Good work out there," the Admiral says. "Keep an eye on the situation in Etaron, but for now, dismissed."

The holograms salute and flicker out, and the room's lights brighten, banishing the eerie blue glow. Dodonna turns to the Jedi—to Chena. "My condolences, Knight Oslar," she says. "Colonel Tullan informed me of your loss in his report. Master Iylos will be sorely missed."

Chena's frozen, blank expression does not change. "Yes, Admiral," she says.

Dodonna scrutinizes her for a moment, then sighs near-imperceptibly. "Bastila. Are you prepared to engage in further ground battles if necessary?"

"I am," she says. What other option does she have—refusal? No. And perhaps this is for the best. Concentrating on winning the war distances her from the horrors it has inflicted on those fighting it—Sergeant Mersh, at risk of losing her arm; her squad, half slaughtered by the Sith; Iylos, left broken in the dust with a hole burned through his spine.

Her own Master, lost to the void, his body never recovered from the wreckage of the _Crusader_.

"Then I'm sending you to aid in the defense of Serenno. In all likelihood it will remain an orbital conflict, but be prepared to move to the surface should the Sith break through."

"Serenno?" Bastila says, frowning. "I was under the impression that the Great Houses were not interested in Republic aid."

"They weren't," Dodonna says with a grimace, "until the Sith actually began threatening them. They have stated their preferred neutrality on multiple occasions, but when their system came under attack and their planet's obscene wealth was jeopardized, they requested reinforcements. Specifically, you."

"Why me?"

"Because you're swiftly becoming the single most valuable asset the Republic has. They want to know how serious we are about an alliance—how much we want their support, perhaps even their membership in the Republic. They're testing us."

"No pressure," mutters Chena.

"How did you find Lieutenant Onasi as a pilot?" asks Dodonna.

"Capable, adaptive, and professional under fire, if a bit . . . idiosyncratic," Bastila says haltingly. "Why?"

"I'm assigning him to you for the journey to Serenno."

**o.O.o**

Well, now. Here's an interesting pattern: every other day since her awakening, between 2200 and 2300 hours Fleet standard time, a short transmission has been sent from the _Monument_ to the _Tempest_. It's not a normal report for Command; those are sent out at other times and from consistent terminals. These messages originate from several locations around the ship, but the login information remains the same. Anonymous, not connected to any staff accounts, but authorized nonetheless.

Sen drums her fingers against the keypad, thinking. Then she checks the timestamp of the latest message—last night, 2247. The next should therefore be sent out tomorrow. She can set an alert for whenever the informant logs on, but the _Monument_ is nearly a kilometer in length—she probably won't be able to catch them in the act. Not in person, at any rate. She doesn't need to, though; she merely needs to identify the informant.

For that, she slips into the maintenance droids' directory and carefully tweaks a few of their schedules. Nobody ever really thinks about droids—nonliving, lacking a Force signature, programmed for subservience, periodically mind-wiped to quash any developing personality or individual desires. They're beneath notice. And that makes them dangerous.

Droids—

_HK-47._

She remembers HK. Its— _his_ , she asked it whether it wanted a gendered pronoun and it said _he_ —his favorite strategy to get close to a target, if he wasn't allowed to just come in all guns blazing, was to pose as a protocol droid. The fact that he could imitate the prim mannerisms of most protocol droids so well was not surprising, but it was certainly amusing, even if Malak never got the joke—

_Complaint: The bald meatbag is threatening to deactivate me again, Master. Permission to reciprocate?_

Another clear spot in her memory, another piece of her life reclaimed. She smirks. The Jedi Council is a body of meddlesome fools, and they can't even meddle effectively.

Cheered, she puts the finishing touches on a program that will hopefully crack at least a few Sith codes by tomorrow. Some lower-priority transmissions are left with lazy encryptions that can be brute-forced; the more interesting ones take actual creativity to break. Or an unfair advantage, like having been present when Saul Karath's resident cryptographic experts explained the processes to herself and Malak.

Should she be quite this happy about thwarting her former allies' plans in a multitude of small but significant ways? Probably not. Sen Tethis is supposed to find that kind of thing necessary but tragic, because . . . all life is sacred, apparently, even that of the Sith? And she's _ever_ so remorseful for killing people while smuggling nonexistent narcotics and weaponry on the Outer Rim.

The reaction is obviously artificial. There's no turning point, no watershed moment, no narrative arc to the change in her supposed character—she's simply captured by the Republic and suddenly becomes a guilt-ridden atoner.

Hilarious.

"All right, people, fun's over, go rest those weary brains before they leak out of your cranial orifices," Iden calls out. "Enjoy your day off, if you must be obnoxious, and don't lord it over us poor saps who have to wait for our turn."

Pol cackles, standing up and stretching until his vertebrae pop. "I'm beat," he says. "Anyone for dinner and a drink?"

"Long as it's not rotgut," says Veska, "I'm for it."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I'm not that cruel. Sen?"

"Sure," she says. "What's this about rotgut?"

Pol waves a hand, leading the way to the canteen. "Oh, it was before your time. Some ingenious third-shifter went and set up a whole distillery in a storage closet. Had a deal going with the janitorial staff, I'd bet—anyway, she had it on tap during the most miserable not-actually-shore-leave in the history of the Fleet—we were lightyears away from any planets without a space station in sight—and a bloody fantastic time was had by all. We think."

"Too wasted to remember?"

"I remember," Veska says. "Lot of singing involved. And seducing the second- and third-shifters. And singing while f—"

"Veska! Such slander," Pol splutters, red-faced.

"Fact. I have evidence," Veska says mildly. "Amazing performance, by the way."

"You _watched?!_ "

"Unfortunately. Was hard to avoid, you bastard."

"Do we know who was responsible for all this?" Sen says with a grin.

"Lovely girl—Aleesa something or other."

She startles. "Tall, blonde, grouchy? My _roommate?_ "

"That's the one," Pol says. "Ah, here we are."

The canteen is packed with off-duty personnel, ranging from soldiers to engineers to pilots. The _Monument-II_ is an old ship; it served during the war with Exar Kun, and has been relegated to mostly administrative duties as faster, deadlier ships are brought into service against the Sith. In a pinch, it can be used as support for a better-equipped vessel, but currently it's merely patrolling less-threatened space lanes. The brass can afford to allow the crew time off with some kind of regularity.

Sen, Pol, and Veska collect their meals from the serving line, then search for a table. It's a difficult prospect: the swarms of people leave very few open seats in groups of three. Eventually Veska grows impatient with all the hovering and drags Pol and Sen to the far wall, against which they sit and eat off their trays in their laps, pending an available spot.

"Ooh, Veska! I heard someone down in Engineering was planning a dejarik tournament," Pol says.

Veska's eyes light up. "When?"

"Possibly tonight? Thought you might be interested."

" _Yes._ "

The conversation turns to Veska's former life as a schoolyard dejarik champion back on Bothawui. And thence to the relative merits of dejarik versus pazaak, which Sen absolutely loathes.

"You bet money on simple arithmetic," she says with a sneer. "It's _pointless._ "

"Heathen," says Pol. "It takes skill, it does, and a good head for numbers."

"Dejarik at least makes a pretense of requiring strategy. Pazaak is—"

"Oi, pazaak _is_ bloody strategic! Ever see a card shark in action? Thing of beauty."

"Boring," says Veska.

"You have no soul," Pol states. "Either of you. Augh. I need a drink."

**o.O.o**

Bastila knocks on Chena's door. The Guardian's grief flows sluggish and thick in the Force, a river choked by debris after a storm. She knows the feeling, all too well. She also knows that allowing it to consume oneself is dangerous.

There's no answer. Maybe Chena didn't hear—Bastila knocks again, louder.

The door slides open. Chena stares at her hollowly from within, her cheeks dry but her eyes bloodshot. "Can I help you?" she says.

"May I come in?"

She takes a step back in answer; Bastila enters, glancing around the room in curiosity. Impersonal, as most Jedi quarters are, but here and there she can see signs of personality. A holo of Iylos and a gaggle of younglings, among them a dark-haired girl who might very well be Chena herself. A green ceramic mug painted with yellow letters spelling out _Thank You Jedis From Tasi And Ben_. A stack of holonovels on the desktop. All small, portable, and modest.

"What do you want?" Chena asks.

"Just to talk," says Bastila. "I'm worried about you."

"Don't be. I'm fine."

"You're obviously not. I can sense your distress."

"What are you going to do, Battle Meditate at me until it all goes away?"

Bastila huffs. "No. This is something you must come to terms with on your own. It will be painful, but . . . it's necessary."

"Don't you dare tell me how to grieve," Chena says coldly.

"I know how you're feeling," Bastila says. "Please, let me help you—just talk to me—"

"Get out."

"I lost my Master, too, I know that it feels as if—"

Chena snarls, "You don't know anything, Shan. Centares was your first ground battle, yeah? Well, it was nothing new for us. We've been fighting this war since Revan and Malak first crawled out of the black. _You_ have been sitting around _meditating_ while good people fight and die in the dirt to protect _your_ precious ass—"

"And I feel every one of their deaths!" Bastila shouts. "Do you think I'm unaware of the suffering this war has caused? I may not experience it directly, but I can't escape it any more than you can!"

Chena laughs wildly, brokenly, pointing at the hologram on the bedside table. "See them? You failed them. All of them. Every single one of those Jedi, those children, is dead or worse thanks to this _fucking_ war—except for me! Picked off by hunters. Killed in battle. Captured and tortured and turned to the Dark Side so that _we_ had to kill them! You call yourself the Hope of the Republic? _Fuck you._ "

Bastila stares at her, aghast. "I—"

"Out," Chena says. "Right now."

Bastila stumbles out of the room, hands shaking. What did she do wrong? What did she say? She offered her sympathy, and Chena—

She's drowning.

**o.O.o**

"Y're m'fav'rite," Pol slurs, beaming at her with drunken benevolence. "Y're th' _best._ "

"You're not so bad yourself," Sen says dryly. She slides the tumbler of liquor away from him, and his face falls like an empire.

"Wazznt done wi' that," he mumbles.

"Yes, you are."

"Y're _eeevil_ ," Pol informs her, and he wanders away to join the shouting, cheering crowd around one of the mess tables. Someone ran up to their quarters to get a dejarik board, with actual, physical pieces for each player. Veska is systematically destroying every contender, aided in no small part by the amount of alcohol consumed by most of them before they work up the courage to challenge her.

Sen leans back against her own table, sipping her drink, in a quieter zone away from the action. She watches with a faint half-smile as credits are exchanged and bets are taken. Force help her, she likes them. Ordinary people, not a single Force-sensitive among them, concerned more with their own small lives than with the fate of the galaxy . . . She feels _safe_ with them.

It's an illusory safety, she knows, as they live under constant threat of Sith attack and one or more of them is spying on her for the Jedi Council, but at least none of them are going to actively try to kill her.

"Wow, and here I thought I was the only person here who wasn't shitfaced," a voice comments from behind her.

She turns—she vaguely recognizes him, an intensely befreckled human in his mid-thirties with a shock of orange hair. A mess hall worker, friendly with everyone unless they spill condiments on a recently-cleared table. "Liver of durasteel," she says, waggling the half-empty shot glass in her left hand. "Only not really."

The man laughs. "I can see that. You're in crypto, right?"

"Yeah, the nerd herd. I'm Sen."

"Julnar Kess," the man says. "I, uh, I give people food."

"Good to meet you properly," she says, swirling the drink around absently. The best that can be said of this particular brew is that it's alcoholic. Very alcoholic. Taste is secondary to delivering a swift punch to the fine motor skills and judgement centers of the brain. Or stripping paint; it's a bit ambiguous. She'll have to ask Aleesa if it's one of her concoctions. Sen puts the glass down. "So how long have you been on the _Monument_?" she asks.

"Couple months. Been working for the Republic for the past six, seven years. Used to be a soldier, actually."

"Why the career change, then?"

Julnar gives a twisted smile and presses the heel of one hand into his thigh. "Took a blaster bolt to the leg on Faiue, right before the end of the Mandalorian Wars. Jedi kept me and my squad alive until the medics got there, but kolto can only do so much."

". . . I'm sorry," she says, biting back further questions.

"What about you?" Julnar asks breezily. "What brings you aboard this venerable lady?"

Sen snorts, calling up memories of days that never happened. "A really shitty choice of cargo and a really lucky Republic gunner. Next thing you know I'm being hauled up in front of a military court with a choice between prison or five years' service. I'm a spacer—I'd lose my mind dirtside. Figured working on a cruiser'd be the best way to keep flying."

"How the mighty have fallen," Julnar says. He produces a bottle of the questionably-sourced drink and pours himself a shot, then tops off Sen's. Raising his, he says, "To career changes and crap liquor."

" _K'oyacyi,_ " she says without thinking, tipping hers in Julnar's general direction.

He frowns. "That's Mandalorian, right?"

"They knew how to throw a party," Sen drawls, and gulps down the vile substance as quickly as possible. She coughs, eyes watering, but manages not to choke. Uncertain provenance and a kick like tickled krayt dragon? Paint stripper. It's all too plausible.

Shrugging, Julnar copies her. He taps the rim of his glass and looks at her sidelong. "Is it strange, working here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you were a self-employed mover of sensitive cargo, right?" he says teasingly. "And now you're a codebreaker. That's gotta be quite a shift."

"Not that different. It's still all about outsmarting everyone." Her ears are burning—the alcohol's hitting her bloodstream.

"Ha—point." He refills their glasses, gazes fixedly into his. "Look, I—I dunno how to say this without being all creepy, but . . . I notice people. With my job, it's not that easy to actually talk to them—I'm invisible, y'know, 'cause I'm cleaning their tables or whatever. But I've seen you around, and talking to you now, you seem like a really nice person, and, well, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to do this again sometime?"

Sen stares at him. "This," she repeats. "Meaning . . . chat?"

"Yeah . . .?"

"Are you flirting with me?" she asks bluntly.

"No!" Julnar says, recoiling. " _Hell_ , no, no flirting, that's not what I—not that you're not attractive, just—dammit. Sorry. What I mean is that I'd like to get to know you better."

"So you're proposing . . . what, probationary friendship?"

"Just probationary, huh?"

She nods, exasperated. "I don't know you," she enunciates. "So yeah, probationary. Sometimes these things just don't work out."

"Aw, isn't that kinda defeatist?"

She stands up, setting her glass down with a final _clack_. "Don't push it," she says. "I'm gonna go watch Veska kick everybody's asses."

**o.O.o**

It's nearly five days from Centares to Serenno. Five days aboard a cramped cargo freighter with no one but Carth Onasi and Chena Oslar for company.

Onasi tries to fill the oppressive silence—for an hour or two, at least. He chatters about their ship's enhancements, about hyperspace physics, about a distant cousin of his who used to be a steward in one of the Great Houses. Then his material runs out, and he trails off in resignation to the inevitable.

Chena spends most of her time either staring into the swirling blue void or locked into her cabin. Bastila wanders around the ship, restless, after those first few awkward hours in the cockpit, returning every so often to check in on Onasi, who seems to regard her visits as funny.

"Look, clearly I'm not the one you want to be talking to," he says the fourth time she drifts into the cockpit.

"She will not listen," Bastila says.

Onasi tilts his head. "Oh, yeah? Will you?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean sometimes you've got to let people deal with their crap in their own way. Their own time."

"We are Jedi," Bastila says stiffly, "and we are at war. We don't have the luxury of time, or the excuse of lack of discipline."

". . . I can see why she's so excited to have this conversation with you," says Onasi, rolling his eyes.

Bastila sniffs and returns to her own cabin. Onasi cannot possibly understand. A Jedi does not allow their emotions to rule them. A Jedi does not wallow in self-pity. A Jedi sets these aside and acts with a clear mind.

And yes, it is difficult. She struggles to control herself every day. To let go of her fears and anxieties. But she managed to stay afloat after the attack on the _Crusader_ , she managed to keep herself more or less stable with her Master dead and an unwanted Force bond connecting her to the Sith who killed him—Zhar trusted her enough to leave her with the Fleet, even after all of that.

Still, she does experience doubt. So much of the Jedi way sounds like wishful thinking in the face of this war. Chena's reactions attest to that. In the heat of the moment, it's all too easy to dismiss the Code as meaningless or trite.

Which is what makes it all the more important that they both hold to it.

**o.O.o**

"That's it, stay centered, don't get distracted by the zella nut gallery—"

"You told us to be distracting!"

"Exactly, so keep it up, all of you."

". . . Trask Ulgo is a snarveling plobbersmick!"

"What does that even _mean?_ "

Sen grins and dances back from Trask's strike, unarmed but unworried. She had been, initially, as the combination of a slight hangover from last night and Trask's squad as witnesses to her training was not very appealing. But Evi and Olen didn't seem to care that when last they met she was embarrassingly incompetent as a swordswoman; evidently, Trask told them about their sessions. They were quite happy to provide running commentary as a test of focus.

"Okay—now," Trask says.

He stabs forward. She sidesteps, catches his sword hand, pivots until they're nearly shoulder to shoulder, and keeps turning. She controls his momentum, uses it to pull him into a spin, overbalanced—a smooth arm movement, a quick adjustment of grip, and Trask's back slams into the mat, his sword in her hand angled towards his throat.

"Nice," he says, rolling onto his feet. "That was great. Solid stance, good finish. Now let's actually fence. Evi?"

The soldier tosses him another practice sword, which he flourishes. "Showoff," Evi says with a fond shake of her head.

"I'm loosening my wrist," Trask says primly.

Olen snorts. "Uh- _huh._ You just think that looks cool."

Trask and Sen circle each other, eyes locked. Then Trask attacks, a sudden jab to the torso that she blocks easily; she retaliates, and they quickly settle into the rhythm of strike and counterstrike. Trask fights using the standard Republic melee style, an economical and powerful form; Sen slithers away from his blows, never quite engaging, never pitting her strength against his but using his momentum to feed her own.

It is nothing like the modified Juyo she's been using for nearly ten years. But it works, and it doesn't require the Force.

Then Evi jumps in to attack her flank. Sen deflects before she quite registers what's happening. "Thought the zella nut gallery wasn't part of the action," she says, skipping backwards a few steps.

Trask charges. "Who said we were fighting fair?" he shouts, bringing his sword down in a devastating blow that, if backed by a real vibroblade, could probably slice her clean in half lengthwise.

Sen twists aside and pivots again, gets behind him, kicks him square in the small of the back. Not quite what he's been teaching her, but it does send him down to the mat again, leaving her with only Evi to deal with.

And Olen, now. Well, then.

The next minutes are a blur of weaving and ducking and trying to control the flow of combat through redirection rather than raw power. She stays in constant motion, never allowing more than one or two of her attackers to come at her at any one time, positioning them so that they block each other's advances as they fall and spring back to their feet. The object of this exercise isn't to strike a finishing blow—it's to remain standing as long as possible.

It grates against every instinct she's honed over the course of a thousand battles, against Mandalorians or against Jedi and Republic troops. Kill the enemy before they kill you. Don't let them get up again. There are no points for mercy or kindness or honor.

Against overwhelming odds, though, she might not have much choice but to try to outlast them. And while three against one has, until quite recently, never been overwhelming odds, it certainly feels that way now.

They score several hits—killing blows, mostly. The exercise continues. Every time she misses a parry or stumbles into a strike, she bites back a curse and returns to guard position, ready to try again. And again. And again.

Sen keeps fighting until exhaustion, dehydration, and a shoulder that seems to be full of molten lead force her to call a halt. By then, even Olen is sweating. He salutes her with his sword, winking. "Doing good, nerd," he says.

"Thanks—grunt," she pants, tottering over to a stack of crates with their personal effects laid on top. She sets the practice sword down and gulps half a liter of water while Olen mops off his forehead and Evi chugs some kind of energy drink. Trask's face is blotched red, but he's grinning.

"I gotta say, I did not expect you to pick this up so fast," he says.

"Neither—did I."

They settle on a date for the next lesson—Evi and Olen volunteer to join in, and Sen nods so fast that her head starts aching again. "That was—really helpful," she says. She glances at Trask. "If they fit in with your plans."

"Sure," he says. "See you around, then."

"Thanks. All of you—thank you."

Sen collects her gear—she stuffs her discarded jacket back into her bag, far too overheated and sweaty to wear it—and sets off for the crew quarters, bag over one shoulder, practice sword over the other. The recycled shipboard air is cold against the clammy skin of her arms. She quickens her stride, eager to reach a 'fresher.

The lights flicker. She steps forward and _bounces_ —floats at least a foot in the air before being yanked back down.

Sen lands hard, absorbs the impact with her knees, grimaces at the extra weight from her belongings. "What in the . . ."

"Ah, kriff," a passing Mon Cal crewman says.

"Did we just lose gravity?" she says, uneasy.

"Yeah, that's twice in the past month. We're flying on a fifty-year-old scrap heap, so it's no wonder things are starting to fall apart."

Sen walks very carefully the rest of the way to her quarters.

Aleesa is asleep; Sen has to tiptoe to avoid waking her, and juggling her gear while expecting to be propelled towards the ceiling at any moment does not make it any easier. The shower is likewise nerve-wracking. Water, hard tiles, and fluctuating gravity tend not to mix well.

But gravity remains steady, and, once dried and dressed again, Sen goes to sleep.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	7. Perturbation

_In which everyone is an emotional mess._

**o.O.o**

They're three days away from Serenno when Bastila makes her next attempt to reach Chena. She catches the Guardian in the empty cargo hold, where she has taken up saber practice, running through katas with an alarmingly blank expression.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Bastila asks.

Chena stops mid-motion, deactivating her lightsaber. "Yes, I do mind," she says.

"Your attitude is not helping anyone, least of all yourself."

" _My_ attitude? I just want you to leave me alone!"

"For how long?" Bastila says. "We must be able to work together once we reach Serenno. Every day you spend in this state is another day wasted—"

"We'd work together just fine if you'd just—stop. Give me some time, okay, that'd _help_ a lot more than what you've been doing!"

"All I'm asking is for you to open up a bit—"

"And all I'm asking is for you to leave me alone! Unless you're just too emotionally tone-deaf to know when to back off."

Emotionally tone-deaf? Ridiculous. She is well aware of Chena's grief. She's trying to help. Why can't she see that?

Chena is watching her, frustration stirring the mire of the Force around her. "Bastila, just go."

"Not until we determine how to get your emotions under control. You are a Jedi, Chena. You're better than this."

There is a moment of calm, of quiet. Then Chena surges into motion, lightsaber blazing. Bastila instinctively activates hers and blocks the attack, smashes it to the side, sweeps the other blade low to force Chena back. "What are you doing?" she cries out.

"You asked to join in," Chena says. "So _fight me_ already!"

Bastila remains on the defensive, appalled by the hopeless rage sleeting from the Guardian. Fueled by that rage, she fights as if she has every intention of maiming or killing her. Chena drives her out of the cargo hold, into the central room of the freighter. Bastila winces as their lightsabers leave scorch marks and sparking wires along the bulkheads.

"Just—leave—me— _alone!_ " Chena howls.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

Bastila jumps. Lieutenant Onasi stands silhouetted by the cockpit's hyperspace-blue glow, hands on his hips, glaring between the two of them like a Jedi Master pushed to the breaking point. "Well?" he says.

Breathing hard, Chena lowers her lightsaber. She looks at Bastila, horror dawning in her eyes. "I—Bastila, I didn't . . ."

Onasi stalks forward. "No, I bet you didn't," he says, heedless of the humming blades at their sides. "So both of you— _stand down._ Take a damn breather and—and try not to blow out any of the exterior walls, for kriff's sake, or we're all sucking vacuum. Quarters. _Now._ "

Shame-faced, Chena obeys, deactivating her saber and practically fleeing the hold. Bastila remains, spine stiff and straight, thumb wavering over the ignition button.

"That goes for you, too," Onasi barks.

"I was trying to help," she says numbly.

"Yeah? Well, great job."

"What would you have me do? Let her drown in self-pity?"

Onasi gapes at her. "Kriffing— _no._ Let her get her head on straight. Stop pushing."

"If she does not address—"

"Padawan Shan, I might not be a Jedi, but I like to think I know a thing or two about mourning," he snaps out. "Leave her be."

Bastila shuts off her lightsaber and stalks into her quarters, shame and frustration roiling around her in a toxic, clammy fog.

**o.O.o**

That morning, Sen wakes up to a new alert from her tracking programs.

Another hit—2232 last night, sent from a terminal just a few decks above. No other transmissions sent from any anonymous account during the 2200-2300 time frame. And courtesy of the _Monument-II_ 's diligent droid maintenance crew, she has eyes on that terminal.

The image on her datapad screen is grainy and blue-tinged, but clear enough through the sensors of a scrubber droid.

Sen falls back against her pillow, sneering. "Of course," she mutters.

Julnar limps off-screen from hours ago, his duty done.

"The hell are you doing?" Aleesa grumbles, stomping into their room and kicking her shoes into the corner by her bed.

"Catching up," Sen says. She deactivates the datapad and sits up again.

"Thought you had yesterday off. Lucky bitch."

She shakes off the desire to retaliate. _Redirect._ "I did," she says slowly. "I also heard that you once brewed illegal moonshine in a storage closet for use over shore leave."

Aleesa freezes. "Who told you."

"Colleague. I find this . . . an admirable show of initiative."

"That's not even a little condescending."

"I'm an _arrogant_ bitch," Sen says loftily.

Aleesa snorts, toeing off her socks and falling onto her bed backwards. "Can't argue with that," she says.

Oh, what the hell. If this keeps up they might actually become non-hostile, which will make Sen's mornings much more pleasant. "You have very nice eyebrows."

". . . Thanks?"

"I'm going to go to work now," Sen chirps, bouncing to her feet.

"You do that," says Aleesa, eyeing her in bemusement.

Down in Communications, Pol looks pitiful while Veska gives off an air of superiority in her life choices.

"Looks like someone had an interesting night," says Sen.

"Ach, keep your voice down," he says, hunching over his station and wincing at every noise. There's a cup of caf at his elbow. Perilously close to his elbow, in point of fact.

Sen scoots it out of harm's way and sits down. "You know that stuff's a diuretic," she says.

"'S a what?"

"Makes you piss," says Veska. "Hangover feels worse when you're dehydrated."

Pol's forehead thunks onto his workstation. "And you only saw fit to mention this now?"

Veska pats him on the back, consolingly. "Didn't know human biology was that stupid."

Pol lifts his head and glares at the caf as if it's betrayed him. "Shit," he enunciates.

Sen snickers quietly, logs in, and gets to work on the latest crop of Sith transmissions. Not to her usual standard, though. A great deal of her focus is on the question of _now what_? She knows that Julnar Kess is her watcher. She knows how and when he's sending his messages to his handlers. And given the fact that he approached her last night and made contact, it stands to reason that he's trying to worm his way into her confidences. Evidently the Jedi want him to keep a closer eye on her. A few hours per day of indirect and fleeting contact isn't enough to give a comprehensive idea of what's going on in her head.

But actual conversations, trust, maybe even friendship? Awkward as Julnar's overture was, she might have considered talking with him if she hadn't discovered his side job.

She'll probably have to, anyway. Stave off suspicion. And she can't exactly get rid of Julnar now—well, she could, but then she'd have to find his replacement watcher, and that would just be inconvenient.

She could try to crack his encrypted messages. Intercept and alter them if necessary—if he catches on that she's well aware of who and what she was.

_Is,_ part of her says stubbornly. Except for the bit where her memory of what that entailed is full of more holes than a noodle strainer.

Sen puts that little existential crisis on hold. She'll see how _friendly_ Julnar wants to get, and deal with him accordingly. Best-case, he doesn't realize she remembers anything, she doesn't have to interfere with his reports, and she can focus on finding a way out of this mess.

**o.O.o**

Serenno is a dusk-blue gem of a world, some quirk of its atmospheric composition rendering the sky a soft slate color. From space, the equatorial region's band of clouds looks like white filigree, swirling and spiraling in elegant streams. The Serennian defense fleet floats high above the surface in watchful silence. A beautiful planet, calm and peaceful, its night side speckled with pale lights from scattered urban centers.

Beyond the night side, beyond the orbits of the outer planets, Sith ships gather at the fringes of the system, guaranteeing violent retribution should the Serennians refuse their offer of "protection."

Bastila and Chena have been avoiding each other since their altercation. They're only reconvening in the cockpit now that they've arrived. Onasi has studiously ignored the tension strangling their ship, instead focusing on maintenance and navigation. As the transport glides into range, he opens a channel. "Serenno Command, this is Republic shuttle _Kassidon_ requesting permission to—"

" _Kassidon_ , you are cleared to dock with Serennan Orbital Command Ship _Patrician_ ," the comms officer cuts in. "Please make your way to these coordinates with all haste."

"Is there a problem?" Bastila asks over Onasi's shoulder as the capital ship's location appears on the nav readout. Peaceful Serenno might appear, but even from thousands of klicks away she can sense the edges of the defenders' anxiety.

"The Sith are on an approach vector," the officer says grimly. "It would seem that you have arrived just in time, ma'am."

"Acknowledged, Command," says Onasi. " _Kassidon_ out." He alters course, shaking his head. "Here we go again . . ."

The _Patrician_ is beautiful, as warships go, all smooth curving lines and bright steel-blue hull, its sublight engines glowing pale red. Onasi takes them into its aft hangar bay and sets them down gently before twisting around to look at Bastila and Chena. "Want me with you two for the briefing, ma'am?" he asks.

"That would be best, I think," says Bastila. Try as she might to attribute her answer to some clever plan, the truth is that she knows him and trusts him far more than the Serennans. As Onasi unbuckles himself from the pilot's seat and cracks the vertebrae in his neck, she strides towards the rear of the transport and lowers the ramp. Chena trails after her, silent and stony-faced.

The three of them descend, and Bastila takes a moment to look around the hangar. There's a wing of starfighters off to the left, canopies raised, surrounded by a swarm of mechanics and maintenance droids as they're refueled, checked, and re-checked. The pilots are streaming into the hangar in ones and twos, pulling on their helmets as they go. They may not fly for the Republic yet, but there's little difference between the _Patrician_ 's crew complement and that of the _Tempest_.

"This way," an aide says, guiding the Jedi and pilot deeper into the ship. They wind through the corridors and enter the turbolift leading up to the bridge—a pleasantly open space with sunken crew stations along the sweeping walls and a captain's chair front and center. Before it is a low wide holoprojector currently displaying the entire Serenno system, planets and asteroids in blue, friendly ships in green, and the Sith in red.

The chair's occupant, a tall, dark human with close-shorn grey hair, stands and salutes. Her Force presence is steady, unflappable. Perhaps even indifferent. "I am Captain Edrin Simm," she says. "Thank you for your prompt response to my planet's call for aid, Master Jedi."

"She's a Padawan, actually," Chena says. Bastila sighs inwardly. _Not the time._

"Ah," says Simm, raising an eyebrow at her before turning to Bastila. "I apologize, Padawan Shan. But in any case, your aid is appreciated."

"What's the situation, then?" asks Bastila.

"The Sith left hyperspace approximately 1.2 billion klicks out from the planet. They're approaching swiftly just above the orbital plane," she says, indicating the hologram.

Bastila peers at the image, trying to calculate distances and velocities. "How long until they arrive?"

"Three hours."

She waits, but Simm doesn't elaborate. Bastila frowns and prompts, "What exactly do you want me to do, here?"

Simm smiles, showing teeth. Bitter _triumph_ echoes through the Force, and the captain says, "You're already doing it."

The bottom drops out of Bastila's stomach as security officers move to surround her, Onasi, and Chena, blasters drawn.

**o.O.o**

The first shift cryptographers are just entering the mess hall on lunch break when all the baseboard lights go red and an alarm begins to blare.

" _Warning. Internal temperature above critical,_ " a smooth, computerized voice informs them. " _Warning. Internal temperature above critical._ "

"The hell?" Pol says, looking around. "Feels just fine . . ."

" _Emergency cooldown initiated._ "

The air vents belch thick white clouds. They pour down the walls, pooling on the floor—Sen sidles back as tendrils ooze towards her boots. "Please tell me this isn't engine coolant," she says, raising a wrist to her face and pressing the fabric of her jacket over mouth and nose.

"Water ice," an off-duty tech says, kicking at the cloud with a snort. "Dammit, I _told_ Wolan the temp monitors were faulty!"

"What do you mean, _faulty_?" Pol shrills.

The tech rolls his eyes. "I mean the damn things are older than dirt and need replacement yesterday. Automated controls must've turned on when the internal temp registered above three-fifteen."

"We'd be broiling if it was that hot," says Sen.

"Yeah, well, I told you they need replacement." The tech stalks off, calling over his shoulder, "I'm going down to Maintenance to raise hell."

Veska's fur has puffed out, making her a bit fuzzier-looking than usual. Pol is dancing from foot to foot and rubbing his arms. Sen stuffs her hands into her jacket pockets and blows out a breath that rises like mist off a lake in winter.

"Anyone for a snowball fight?" Pol says hopefully.

" _Attention all crew,_ " the _Monument_ 's captain says over the intercom. " _There has been a malfunction in the ship's temperature regulation systems—_ " ("Surely not," mutters Veska.) "— _but repairs are underway. Return to your duties unless otherwise notified._ "

"Useless," Veska says.

"No, seriously, we could start a snowball fight—"

"With what?" the Bothan demands.

Pol shrugs. "I dunno, frozen protein goo?"

Julnar Kess shakes his head at him from behind the serving counters. "It's a hell of a lot denser than water. You could hurt someone."

"That does not inspire confidence in the goo's suitability for consumption," Pol says.

Sen snorts. Julnar glances at her, then cracks a smile. Of course. He wants to ingratiate himself into her immediate circle. "Yeah, I'm with you there."

"Eh, it's not as though I can cook much better. How's about we get something to eat before it all freezes solid?" says Pol, taking up a tray.

They manage to eat quickly enough that there are only a few frost crystals on the surface of their food, but five minutes later the vents are still gushing ice-cold air and the mess hall floor is decidedly slippery. Trask and Olen are over at the far end of the room and seem to be testing the traction of their shoes. With nearly half an hour left for the shift's lunch break, there's little else to do but join them.

Pol doesn't get his protein goo-ball fight, but a series of duels with dinnerware does ensue. Anything to stay in motion, and therefore, warm. Sen proves adept at using the slippery floor to her advantage, skidding around her opponents and sliding under tables to avoid blows. She's taken out by a tray thrown by Trask, who in turn falls to a Sullustan engineer.

The temperature drops steadily as the lunch break continues. Eliminated competitors congregate near the open ovens in the kitchen, at Julnar's invitation. Sen finds herself wedged between a Falleen and Veska. She looks sideways at the bleary-eyed Falleen, then at the crewmen in front of them. "Move a little, guys," she says, tapping them on the shoulders. "Cold-blooded crew take priority."

"Yeah, yeah. No groping," says one of them, wrinkling his nose at the Falleen.

"I don't know what you mean," he says stiffly.

"Keep the sex pheromones to yourself."

The Falleen's scales flush red. "Excuse me?"

The human sneers at him. "It's what you scalies do, right? Give people a big faceful of chemicals and let 'em drool over you to your lizard heart's content—"

"Racists to the back," Veska growls, tugging him out. The man soon finds himself staring at a wall of shoulders. Cold ones. He curses, but huddles in the last row as the rest of the crew ignore him.

The Falleen folds his arms and shuffles forward, shoulders nearly at his ears. "You didn't have to do that," he says, voice pitched low.

"This is a Republic ship," says Veska. "We don't put up with that kind of shit."

_You're alienating over half the galaxy!_ someone shouts. Sen twitches. No—a memory. They were angry with her . . . She remembers they wore a uniform, black and red. Green eyes. _This is absurd, my lord. Leave aside the moral considerations if you must, but look at the raw numbers!_

She stops breathing. She remembers clenching her hand into a fist and watching the light leave those eyes.

**o.O.o**

A trap. Of course it's a trap. The Serennans know the Republic wants their backing—their money, to fund the war. They know they're valuable enough to warrant Bastila's attention, and they're in good enough standing with the Republic for Bastila to come essentially alone. But if the Sith had a better offer . . .

The holoprojector still shows the Sith approaching, an entire flotilla of warships.

Bastila's eyes narrow. "You're being threatened," she guesses, ignoring the security officers as Onasi swears quietly. "They want you to turn me over or watch your planet be destroyed."

Simm shakes her head, clasping her hands behind her back. "Not quite, Padawan Shan," she says. "Or rather, you know only half the story." Her smile widens. "We have managed to keep the Sith from taking the system for several weeks. But never have we faced so many at once. Our defenses are strong, but they will not hold against a full-scale invasion force—which, as you can see, will arrive shortly. I would like to propose a deal, then, on behalf of the Great Houses of Serenno."

Bastila looks her in the eye. "What kind of deal?"

"You will utilize your Battle Meditation to aid our forces against the Sith. If we succeed in repelling them, you may go free. If not, you will be the price of Serenno's safety. I believe Darth Malak has expressed an interest in capturing you alive."

"Could've just asked," Chena says under her breath.

"Jedi are devious," says Simm. "You pledge to protect the galaxy, and yet only your renegades dare to do what is necessary."

Bastila scowls. "You mean Revan and Malak."

"Merely an observation." Simm shrugs. "Obviously Malak is no longer quite as benign."

"There are Jedi on the ground right now," Chena says tightly. "There are Jedi _dying_ out there! How dare you—"

"Malak will not hold to any bargain you make with him," says Bastila, before Chena can build up a head of steam. Or explode. "He is cunning and deceitful, and he has no compunction about breaking promises. Serenno is in danger whether you give me to the Sith or not."

"But in markedly less danger than it would be if we were to resist the Sith without you," says Simm.

"Why didn't you request more ships?" asks Carth. "The Republic would've sent them." He sounds resigned, but not surprised. Disappointed.

Simm spreads her hands. "The Great Houses felt that if Padawan Shan is as effective as she is rumored to be, they would be unnecessary. And if not, there would be no loose ends attempting to thwart the exchange. So. In the interest of your own freedom and survival, you'd best see to it that Serenno does not fall."

**o.O.o**

"Why is this bucket still flying?" Pol stabs at his workstation, shivering as the techs bring the _Monument_ 's interior up to more reasonable temperatures, albeit slowly.

"Budgeting issues," says Sen. "It's expensive to commission and outfit a whole new cruiser."

"The Sith seem to manage just fine! And they don't even make you pay taxes."

"They also don't do much public infrastructure maintenance," Iden puts in on his way past their stations, about half a dozen datapads under one arm. "They leave that to their puppet governments, which _do_ collect taxes, so keep your complaints to yourself, Mr. Fintan."

"So where do all the bloody ships come from?"

"Greatest enigma of the war," says Veska. "Shut up and work."

"Of course—until we lose oxygen, or gravity, or the computer decides to cook us!"

Iden gives a four-toned sigh. "The captain's aware of the problem, and has contacted Admiral Dodonna. Chances are the _Monument_ will either be decommissioned or renovated."

Pol stares at the Ithorian. "Decommissioned? What'll happen to the crew?"

"That's up to the brass," says Iden. "And now I really need to take these to Lieutenant Pinak, so if you'll excuse me . . ."

Pol falls silent, looking blankly at his monitor without focusing on it. Sen leans over and snaps in front of his nose. "Hey," she says. "You okay?"

He turns to her. "I like this ship," he says mournfully. "And dammit, I like the people on it. Well, mostly. I mean—what happens if we're all split up by Command?"

"You'll survive," says Veska.

Pol throws up his hands. "That I might, but I'll bloody well miss you, appalling sense of humor and all."

"Nothing's final. Might not be split," Veska says calmly. "And worrying won't change anything."

He goes quiet, then, but he seems distracted still.

Sen tries to imagine the two of them apart. It's . . . difficult. All bickering aside, they're always together. Inseparable. Doubtless they'd be fine—they both seem like adaptable people—but Pol without Veska, or Veska without Pol, would be incomplete.

More frighteningly, _Sen_ without Veska and Pol would be . . . less.

_Hells._

She's gotten comfortable here in this life, even after so short a time. She has friends. Colleagues. A boss. Friendly acquaintances. Unfriendly ones she doesn't feel the need to murder in cold blood. She has gone native.

Frack, she would miss these people if she lost them.

_My name is Revan._

_Not. Sen._

She digs her nails into the palms of her hands. This shouldn't be happening. She—she doesn't _do_ this, she doesn't have friends and coworkers and a mundane job and dejarik nights in the canteen— _my name is Revan and this is NOT my life_ —

She _likes_ this life. And yet she can't even tell if that's her true opinion—Sen is the mask but she is comfortable and safe and ordinary and—and she could stay. She could stay here, pretend she was never a Sith Lord, pretend she never commanded armies or destroyed worlds. She could be Sen, and crack jokes with Veska and Pol, spar with Trask, establish a truce with Aleesa, work to speed the end of the war in some small way . . .

She sighs, shoulders slumping. _When the war is over_. They used to keep lists of their plans—fantasies, really—of what they'd do after the Mandalorians were defeated. Malak kept saying he wanted to leave the Jedi entirely. Go to some war-ravaged planet and help pick up the pieces. Walk in the ash. Watch it come alive again.

Revan never told the same story twice. She never had reason to—anything would be possible, when the war was over.

Then _her_ war began.

She doesn't know what happened. She doesn't know why she took her fleet into the Unknown Regions and returned bent on conquest of the Republic she'd spent years trying to save. All she knows is that by the time her memories pick up again, she believed with every fiber of her being that the Republic had to fall.

_Why?_

. . . And that is why she cannot stay. She will never find out from here. Not as Sen.

**o.O.o**

Chena and Onasi are both more than willing to fight their way off the _Patrician._ "They betrayed us once," the lieutenant says, mere centimeters from drawing his blaster. "There's no guarantee they won't do it again."

Bastila looks at Captain Simm. The woman is simply watching and waiting, a hard edge to her gaze promising retaliation if any of them make the first move. "The welfare of Serenno is all that matters," Simm says.

"Yeah, and the rest of the galaxy can rot for all you care," says Onasi.

"If it were your planet, would you not do anything to ensure its safety?"

All the blood drains from Onasi's face. "You—"

"That's enough," Bastila says quickly. "We have little choice in this matter, Lieutenant." To Simm, she says, "I will do my best for your planet. And I will hold you to your word. But know this—at the first hint of treachery, we _will_ demonstrate why you do not renege on a deal with Jedi."

Chena, with a fortunate sense of the dramatic, folds her arms with a nasty little smirk. "I suggest you don't," she says.

Simm considers them. She gestures, and the security officers seize Onasi and Chena and divest them of their weapons, fastening their wrists together with binders. "A precaution only, you understand," she says, addressing Bastila. "Now, let us begin."

With her only two allies held at gunpoint at her back, Bastila swallows and steps forward to the holoprojector. "I need to know how your forces are distributed to be most effective," she says.

"Very well." And Simm takes her through Serenno's defenses—the early-warning systems monitoring hyperspace traffic to and from the system, the outposts stationed within the mid-orbit asteroid belt, the ground cannons, the small but disciplined fleet remaining in the planet's gravity well.

"Do you hope to keep them from breaching the asteroid belt?" asks Bastila.

Simm shakes her head and points to the empty space between Serenno's orbit and the asteroids. "Not at all. We let the Sith pass through the belt. Then our outposts ambush them from behind. We drive them towards the planet, where they will meet with heavy resistance, and between the two forces, they will be crushed."

"Then what the hell do you need her for?" says Onasi, tugging a bit on his restraints.

"Insurance, Lieutenant," Simm says. She looks at Bastila. "The blood of every Serennan who dies today is on your hands."

Ignoring that pronouncement—and how it resonates with her own growing sense of guilt—Bastila focuses on the battle plan. "I have limited range with Battle Meditation," she says. "I can't affect people outside a certain radius. If the _Patrician_ remains here I will not be able to help the outposts—"

"The homeworld is far more important. Serenno must not fall."

". . . Very well."

**o.O.o**

The first Sith cruisers slip past the asteroid belt, sublight engines at full power. Serenno is a blue-white crescent in the distance. The ship's gun crews and fighter complement stand ready to begin the assault, weapons charged and loaded, targeting systems lighting up as the planet's defenses appear on long-range scanners.

Captain Tova Morlissen of the _Endless_ grips the bridge railing in white-knuckled fists as they begin their approach. This is his last chance. His failure at Ersanne has placed him in the unenviable position of Darth Malak's displeasure—and the Dark Lord was more than clear regarding the consequences of another disappointment.

Thus, this assignment. Serenno—not a strategic necessity, but certainly a valuable asset. Not renowned for its naval power, but respected nonetheless. Morlissen counts himself fortunate. He could have been sent to the ongoing Perlemian conflict, where any mistake, no matter how innocuous, might very well lose the Sith the battle for one of the galaxy's most important trade routes. After Centares' loss, there has been little progress in reestablishing control.

Morlissen sometimes feels that he has been over-promoted. He was quite happy as his predecessor's XO—an administrative position, and a difficult one at that, but he was _good_ at logistics, at the minutiae and details that ensure the smooth running of a starship. He has no desire to command so many troops himself.

But his old CO was killed over a year ago, and ever since, Morlissen has tried—and largely failed—to be as successful a captain.

He should be grateful to Malak, he thinks. All too often, officers in his position are simply executed for incompetence. As it stands, he will be lucky to live to see another sunrise.

His hands are sweating. He wipes them on his uniform and swallows, hard. "Status report," he calls out to the nearest ensign, with a decisiveness he does not feel.

"Sir, the rearmost cruisers are picking up a few unidentified heat signatures from behind us, in the asteroid belt . . ."

Morlissen prays to every god he knows that it's nothing—asteroid mining equipment, some kind of thermal anomaly, space whales, _anything_.

The _Endless_ 's generators wail as a barrage of laserfire splashes against their aft shields.

"Damn," he says calmly. "Red alert, if you please. Ensign?"

"Rear ships report heavy damage—those starfighters hit shields and engines, hard," the ensign says, fingers flying over his interface.

The comms officer twists around in her seat, one hand pressed to her ear. "Sir, the task force is scattering—Commander Lyam is asking for orders."

"Put him onscreen, Lieutenant." A hologram of the other officer's tense face appears, along with three others, all speaking at once, demanding that he _fix this_ somehow, as if he can wave a hand and make the Serennans surrender himself. Morlissen takes a breath. "They hope to herd us towards the planet, forcing us to defend both our fore and our rear simultaneously," he says. "We cannot allow that to happen. You said they were starfighters only at this time, Ensign?"

"Yes, sir!"

"How many?"

"At least two dozen, sir, and they're too fast for our turbolasers to—"

"Send out Flights Aurek through Esk, then! Divert power to aft shields, bring the worst-damaged ships planetwards so that the others can protect them!"

"Aye, sir!"

And for a few glorious minutes, as the Sith starfighters systematically destroy their enemy in a series of vicious dogfights, drawing them away from the capital ships and allowing them to move in closer to the planet, Morlissen believes that he can win this battle.

Then, as his fighters return and the Sith forces reach weapons range with the Serennans, he remembers: he can't.

The ship shakes and judders, and Morlissen finds himself unable to breathe, unable to think. Ersanne. He was so certain that retreat was the best option, that in order to save his ship he had to disengage from the battle and return from a better position. But he was not only in charge of _his ship_. The _Endless_ was badly damaged, yes, but the rest of the Sith line was holding.

He broke that line out of cowardice, out of sheer ineptitude at command.

Captain Tova Morlissen stands on the bridge of his ship as his crew erupts into panicked chaos, all shouting at each other, at him, stop this, save us, what is happening, should we retreat, we should, we must, shields at nine percent, oh Force—

"Ahead full," he says, his hands shaking and his voice thick with fear. "Target their nearest ship. Fire everything." There is no escape. There is only forward.

(A tiny voice at the back of his mind is screaming _no, no, THINK, this is all wrong, you'll get us all killed!_ But it soon fades to nothingness.)

He clutches at the railing as the _Endless_ comes under heavy sustained fire, dizzy and sick at heart. He watches his fleet crumble through the viewport as the burning crescent of Serenno's dawn grows to swallow him whole.

_So I did see another sunrise,_ he thinks distantly, in the end.

**o.O.o**

The Sith command ship burns in pieces, smears and streaks of red-gold skimming the atmosphere far below. Bastila closes her eyes.

"Extraordinary," says Simm. "I had heard stories of your abilities, but this . . . This is more than I could have hoped for."

"You have your rout," Bastila says hollowly, letting the Force flow away from her, leaving behind the memory of those she drowned in it. She resolutely does not think of corpses falling through the sky, frozen by the merciless void only to be seared to dust before they can reach the ground. She opens her eyes and turns to Simm, who looks quite pleased. "We had a deal, Captain."

"So we did. I will inform the Great Houses of what has transpired here. I'm sure they will be most cooperative in any ensuing negotiations with the Republic." Simm gestures, and the security officers move to release Onasi and Chena. "You are free to return to your ship, if you wish to contact Admiral Dodonna."

"Oh, I will," says Bastila.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	8. Prelude

_In which the board is set._

**o.O.o**

Far enough from major hyperlanes and trade routes to be considered out of the way, Ersanne holds little inherent tactical significance. It's a beautiful world, to be sure, mostly wilderness ranging from icy tundra to steaming rainforests and volcanic deserts. It has an abundance of untapped natural resources, but its true value lies in its inhabitants.

In addition to the spaceport cities in its temperate zones, Ersanne also plays host to a Jedi enclave, one of several scattered throughout the galaxy. It's small, ordinarily containing less than a hundred Jedi, Padawans, and initiates at any one time. _Ordinarily_ , it's beneath anyone's notice save the High Council.

But Ersanne is not so distant from the Perlemian as to be safe. For months, now, the Sith have laid siege to the planet. Ersanne remains under nominal Republic control thanks to the efforts of local military, Jedi, and what few reinforcements the Republic can spare. It hasn't been a priority; other worlds are in more immediate danger, and the Republic fleet is not infinite.

Impasse.

Then again, no impasse lasts forever.

**o.O.o**

"What do you mean, there won't be any consequences for Serenno?" Onasi explodes. Then, catching himself, he adds, "I mean, ma'am."

A weary Admiral Dodonna clasps her hands behind her back, draws herself up, and says, "I'm afraid, Lieutenant, that the Serennans are denying everything. We have only your testimony to suggest that anything objectionable _might_ have taken place. And as you were able to repel the Sith anyway, it is a moot point in which the Senate and Great Houses are . . . monumentally disinterested. They are eager to finalize the alliance agreement instead."

Grinding his teeth, Onasi falls silent, glaring at the deck of the war room as if he wants to set it on fire.

Bastila empathizes with his frustration. There's nothing they can do—because to press the issue would be to jeopardize that alliance. The Republic needs Serenno's resources and capital. Being lured into battle under pretenses that weren't even false, only misleading, for a potential betrayal that never actually happened—in the calculus of war, it's not worth the effort to pursue.

It still rankles to have been manipulated so easily. Bastila rather resents the Serennans. At the same time, though she can almost hear her old instructors chiding her for dwelling on the incident. _Learn from the experience. Do not allow it to cloud your mind. It happened; accept it_.

"I assure you, Bastila, this will not occur again," Dodonna says. "In the future, perhaps a ship of your own would provide both mobility and protection."

"My own ship?" she echoes.

Dodonna nods, calling up a hologram of a Hammerhead-class light cruiser. "This, she says, "is the _Endar Spire_."

**o.O.o**

The _Monument-II_ crawls through realspace like an ancient, decrepit beast. The hyperdrive's out. Again.

Sen is starting to seriously wonder if the ship's going to fall apart underneath them all, no matter what the captain and the small army of engineers working around the clock to prevent just such an eventuality might say. First gravity, then heating, now the hyperdrive? Pol's worries about life support malfunctioning aren't all that far-fetched.

The crew tries to carry on as usual. The _Monument_ has mostly been used as a patrol vessel, rarely engaging in active combat; in the time Sen's been on board, she hasn't seen a single space battle. This makes it relatively easy for everyone to pretend that nothing is wrong, to go about their business as if an ill-timed sneeze couldn't send the ship into a cascading systems failure. A battle, though, would likely get them all killed.

They've been hobbling along for the past three days, after the captain received orders from Command: all but a skeleton crew are to be reassigned elsewhere, while the remainder take the ship to the Rendili Hyperworks shipyards on Corellia, where it will be scrapped after over forty years of service.

Sen tells herself that the sinking feeling in her stomach is not because she fears the unknown. It's not because she has no one outside of her tiny circle of . . . colleagues on whom she can depend. It's certainly not because the prospect of losing them frightens her.

. . . She's usually a much better liar.

En route to Coruscant to deposit the nonessential crew, Julnar approaches her in the mess hall after her shift, while Pol and Veska are still in line for food. "You look tense," he says, leaning on a floor cleaner. "Everything okay?"

_Oh, I'm fantastic—my mind is full of holes, you're stalking me in the name of the Jedi, and today's special is Mystery Protein No. 5 with extra green bits_. "Yeah," she says lightly. "Just have a lot on my mind."

"I know the feeling," Julnar says with a wry look. "Any idea where they'll send you?"

"Not really, no." _Go away_ , she thinks, half-wishing she could apply a bit of Force pressure and enforce that order. Only half. The rest of her never wants anything to do with mind tricks ever again. A reasonable hangup, given her recent experiences. It would be a liability if she could still use the Force. She can't, so it's not.

Julnar sighs. "Yeah, they never tell us anything. But seriously—there must be somewhere you actually want to be assigned."

"Wherever I can do the most good for the Republic," she says, with enough earnestness to register on even the most ill-calibrated of irony detectors. Which would be fine, if she didn't want him to believe her devoted to the cause. So she gives a little laugh and says, "As long as it's not Hoth."

"Agreed. I hate the cold," Julnar says.

"Oi, Sen!"

In that moment, she would gladly kiss Pol and/or Veska in full view of Malak, the Jedi Council, and a swarm of reporters. "Coming," she calls out, taking a step back from Julnar. She forces an apologetic smile. "Look, I have to go."

"I'll be seeing you," he says.

Forget hiding her knowledge from the Jedi spy. She is sick of Julnar Kess, the person.

**o.O.o**

Bastila leaves the war room reeling from Dodonna's offer. Her own ship? She can't see herself as a commander. Her strength lies in aiding her allies, not directing them personally.

She does have time to consider, at least.

Bastila is resigned, Onasi is still seething, and Chena is ever more withdrawn. Aside from her obligatory duties as Bastila's protector, she rarely interacts with anyone. After that disastrous confrontation aboard the shuttle, Bastila is hesitant to try again.

So the two of them spend the next few days speaking in short, polite sentences when circumstances force them to converse, and otherwise ignoring each other. Admiral Dodonna doesn't seem to notice the new awkwardness—come to think of it, they've never behaved much differently from this in her presence. Of course she does have more important things than the group dynamics of Jedi on her mind. Namely, the sudden drop-off in Sith activity in several threatened sectors.

They're planning something. Bastila can feel it. The future is clouded by the dark side, but any Jedi with the slightest tendency towards precognition would confirm that, whatever the Sith are preparing for—

"Yeah, yeah, it's big and bad, tell me something I don't know," Onasi mutters when she confides in him.

She looks at him sharply. "You have a distinct lack of deference towards Jedi," she observes.

Onasi shrugs and buries his head in the engines of the _Kassidon_. "Look, if you wanted a yes-man, you've got the wrong pilot."

Lips quirking upward, Bastila says, "Actually, I find your attitude refreshing. Fleet personnel have a tendency to assume I know exactly what I'm doing."

He chuckles, straightening to point the hydrospanner at her. "Give yourself some credit. You've done all right so far."

"For now."

Onasi looks strangely bitter, but the expression passes and he turns back to his maintenance duties.

And that is something Bastila has been wondering about. "You're a lieutenant," she says after a moment. "Why are you shuttling Chena and me around the galaxy at your rank?"

Onasi huffs, grimacing. "It's not enough that I'm damn good at what I do?"

"It's unusual, that's all. And I am curious."

"Pilot's got to fly," he says breezily. "When the Admiral asked me if I wanted the job, I jumped."

She can sense no falsehood from him, but neither is that the entire truth. Bastila is sorely tempted to dig for further information. But prying into her immediate companions' personal lives hasn't been working well for her of late. Instead, she says, "We are lucky to have you, Lieutenant."

He relaxes marginally. "Thanks, ma'am."

Bastila takes her leave. She has her own routine duties to attend to—among them keeping abreast of Revan's status. With the door locked and Chena standing guard outside, Bastila takes out her datapad. Julnar Kess's missives have grown a bit more detailed since she suggested further contact between them, and the picture they draw is remarkably mundane. Revan seems to have integrated fully into her new life. While she does exhibit an unusual fondness for combat training, for a codebreaker, her interactions with the rest of the crew are mostly amicable.

Kess's new message, though . . . She is avoiding contact with him, either dislike or distrust rendering further information difficult to acquire. Troubling. If he pushes, she might suspect a motive beyond mere friendliness. Something less benign. The last thing Bastila and the Council need is for Revan to compromise their asset's reputation. To the Republic's credit, harassment is dealt with swiftly and decisively. But in this situation, it could jeopardize Kess's ability to do his duty.

An alert blinks at the corner of the screen. Frowning, Bastila opens the message, from the captain of the _Monument-II_. While he is not aware of Revan's true identity, he has been instructed to inform her of any major changes in the status of the ship.

She reads the message. She sits back at her desk, deep in thought. If the _Monument_ is being decommissioned, then the crew will be shuffled around the fleet as needed. Including Revan.

Bastila will be taking command of a ship, and will need a crew.

Bastila must also further the Jedi Council's plan, and attempt to glean information on the enemy from whatever is left of Revan's mind, which she has been unable to do thus far due to distance and more immediate obligations, like Centares and Serenno.

Either Dodonna and the Council are conspiring to move things along, or the Force is pushing her towards another meeting with the erstwhile Sith Lord—

The Force crashes over her as a wave of distress and fear rebounds throughout the _Tempest_. Bastila is on her feet and out the door in seconds, Chena on her heels. "Did you feel that?" she asks, headed for the bridge.

"Hard to miss it," says Chena. "Looks like the Sith finally made their move."

Bastila breaks into a run.

**o.O.o**

"You did what you could, Colonel. It may be a tired sentiment, but it is no less true for that." Dodonna's voice is grim as Bastila and Chena arrive on the deathly quiet bridge.

A hologram of a Quarren officer bows his head, face-tentacles squirming in shame. "Thank you, Admiral," he says hoarsely. "219th out."

"What's happened?" asks Bastila.

Dodonna turns, somber. Her eyes keep flicking over to Chena, who fidgets under the sporadic scrutiny. "The Republic has suffered an unexpected loss," she begins.

"Wait," says Chena. "That was Colonel Akkarin. The 219th was assigned to—"

"Ersanne," Dodonna says. "The Sith have taken the planet."

Blinking, pale with shock, Chena visibly struggles to process this. "But . . . we were winning. When I left we were _winning_ . . ."

"All those missing Sith forces," says Dodonna, "seem to have been gathered and deployed to Ersanne to break the siege. They caught the defenders by surprise, captured almost all of the Jedi, and drove the 219th off-planet within hours of landing."

"The kids?" Chena says, a choked whisper.

Dodonna shakes her head. "Gone. I'm sorry, Knight Oslar."

Chena raises a hand to her face, drags it down, spreading a thin film of moisture down her cheeks. "Damn it," she says. "Damn it."

Bastila bites back her instinctive response— _they are one with the Force, now_ —because death would be the kindest fate for the captured Jedi. And the Sith are not known for their kindness. The captives will be forcibly converted and set against their former brethren. Such a statement would be a baldfaced lie.

To say nothing of her previous failures offering comfort. Everything she's tried has only deepened the rift between them, and hurt Chena more than helped.

"I was about to inform the Council," Dodonna says gently. "Would you like to be present?"

Chena swallows. "I—no. I can't," she says. "Please excuse me, Admiral, I—"

"Go ahead."

She flees the bridge, hands clenched at her sides, pain and grief dragging at her every step.

"You won't follow?" says Dodonna.

"No," says Bastila. "I . . . we are not on the best of terms, now."

The Admiral nods in acceptance if not approval, and makes the call to the Jedi Council.

**o.O.o**

Later that evening, Bastila seeks out Lieutenant Onasi once more, this time in the crew mess. She could talk to Dodonna, or contact Master Zhar privately—but she trusts Onasi to be bluntly honest, where Dodonna has always maintained a certain distance, and Zhar was the one who always said to let go of her grief, not to mourn or miss the dead but to accept their loss.

She has the utmost respect for Zhar. But she has tried suggesting that approach to Chena, and it failed utterly.

The mess hall is bursting with life. Crew members are packed shoulder to shoulder at their long tables, laughing, joking, arguing, shouting. Bastila hesitates to join the throng. She is an outsider here; she has no part in their camaraderie no matter how many times she has touched their minds and seen them through battle. Perhaps it's foolish of her to feel so self-conscious—she is a Jedi, after all. Her entire life is dedicated to a code the average galactic citizen might find impossible to uphold. She _knows_ that she is isolated from ordinary people.

And yet as a few of them notice her hovering in the entryway and begin to stare—curious, not hostile—she finds herself shrinking from them.

No. She is Bastila Shan, Jedi Padawan. She drags her chin up, fixes her expression to one of cool regard, and reaches out with the Force to find Onasi, walking where it prompts her.

Onasi, apparently, eats alone. He holds a fork halfway to his mouth as its cargo of greens slowly slips off the end, all his attention focused on the datapad in his other hand. Bastila has to get within two meters of him and cough loudly before he notices her. "Oh—Bastila. Didn't expect to see you down here. Can I help with anything?"

"May I sit?"

Onasi blinks. "Uh, yeah, of course."

She settles across from him, stiff-backed, fingers laced in her lap. "Have you heard what happened to Ersanne today?" she asks.

He grimaces. "Yeah. I was just reading the news bulletin. I'm sorry, it must be hard to see fellow Jedi taken prisoner like that."

"It's a tragedy, yes, but to me it's one among many, in this war. For Chena . . ." She bites her lip, then continues, "She fought on Ersanne, with Master Iylos. I suspect she may have been trained there as well."

"So it's personal."

"Yes. I know I did not handle things well after Iylos's death. You cautioned me against confronting her as I did, and you were right to do so. I—I must ask, if you have any insight that might help us now."

". . . When did I become your counselor?"

"If you don't want to help," Bastila begins, but Onasi shakes his head vehemently.

"No, that's not it, I just . . . It's strange, that's all. Jedi don't usually ask people like me for emotional _insight_. And quite honestly I don't know if I'm the best person to give it, anyway." He rakes a hand through his hair, although a few strands escape to fall over his forehead. "Okay, look. I . . . I know what it's like to lose everyone you care about. I'm not saying she'll react the same way, because she won't, but I remember wishing someone was there to just . . . _be there with me._ Not to judge or tell me I was wrong for feeling like the whole universe had just turned inside-out."

"A Jedi is meant to rise above their emotions," Bastila says.

"Meant to. Doesn't mean you always will." Onasi tries to take a bite of his salad, then makes a face as the fork arrives empty, the leaves having fallen back onto his plate. He sets it down. "I guess . . . be compassionate. A little understanding goes a long way. That's really all I've got."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," she says thoughtfully, standing to leave. "I will consider your advice."

"Two things," he says before she makes it more than a step. "One—call me Carth. Two—leave your lightsaber out of it if you go talk to her, okay? I don't want to have to break up another fight."

Bastila flushes in shame. "Erm—yes. Thank you . . . Carth."

**o.O.o**

"Kneel, my apprentice!"

Sen doesn't so much kneel as collapse, wheezing. Her sides hurt, mostly because Trask kicked her there during their last bout, but also because he has the intonation down _perfectly_ and she can't stop laughing.

"I think you broke her," Olen says worriedly as her laughter approaches hysteria.

"Uh, Sen?" says Trask, dropping the imperious sneer. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she gasps out, wiping her eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Wow. Sorry."

"Can we get on with this?" says Evi, rolling her eyes.

It's not that funny. (Except it really is.) She takes a few calming breaths, then waves a hand. "Go ahead."

Trask clears his throat and flourishes his vibroblade, getting back into character. "You came to us a complete incompetent in the ways of the sword. But after much training and tribulation, you have proven yourself worthy of the title of warrior. Though you may wander in the shadow of incomprehensible mathematical gibberish during your day job, by night, you can hold your own against the supreme badasses of the galaxy, we proud soldiers of the Republic. Which, you know. Is kind of a big deal.

"Therefore," he says, tapping her on each shoulder with the flat of the blade, "by the authority of absolutely no one, by the necessity of a looming reassignment, and by the impressive progress you have made, I dub thee honorary Grunt of the Republic!"

He offers his free hand, pompous expression firmly affixed. "Now rise, my apprentice, and take your place at my side!"

She takes it, and he hauls her to her feet, thumping her on the shoulder. "Seriously, great job," he says. "I'm gonna miss teaching you."

"I had an excellent teacher," Sen says, grinning foolishly.

**o.O.o**

Bastila's next order of business is to apprise Master Zhar of her decisions regarding the crew complement. Their discussion via holo goes quite well at first. She'll need people vetted for loyalty and efficacy—Dodonna has already provided her with a list of potential hands. Bastila requests Carth Onasi specifically, citing his dedication and insight. Zhar nods in approval. "Is there anyone else?"

"I want Revan on my ship."

Zhar does not speak for a long moment. "Are you certain that's wise?" he says eventually. "Remember, Bastila, that as much as you influence her, she can also influence you."

"She knows nothing of our bond," says Bastila. "And I would feel much more comfortable with her nearby rather than virtually unsupervised on some secondary warship."

"Kess is responsible—"

"Master Zhar, Kess . . . attempted to interact with her more directly." She regrets her decision to encourage Kess to do just that. She would prefer Zhar not find out. Self-serving and misleading, perhaps, but it will do no one any good if the situation isn't fixed first. Bastila continues, "It didn't go well; she no longer trusts him."

"Why were we not informed of this?" Zhar asks, frowning.

"I didn't think it was relevant, given the—"

"If Revan is suspicious of his interest in her, she might begin to ask why. And if she finds out, it could jeopardize her entire identity, trigger her memories, bring the back Dark Lord!"

"And how will I or the Council know about this if the only intel I ever receive is a one-line string of capital letters every other day?" Bastila says. She very nearly claps a hand over her mouth, shocked at her own daring—she _never_ argues with Zhar like this, never. And yet—Revan needs to be on the _Endar Spire._ It's the best solution.

Zhar sighs heavily. "A fair point, Bastila. However, the fact remains that your judgement may not be—"

" _What?_ My—forgive me, Master, but if you trust me enough to send me out time and time again to use my Battle Meditation on the Republic's behalf, when I could so easily use it to sabotage everything, you ought to trust me enough to know when I am in danger of the dark side!"

"It is outbursts like this which say otherwise," Zhar says. "Ever since you established the bond with Revan, you have become . . . erratic, defensive."

"As anyone would, were they constantly told their judgement was compromised!" Bastila shouts.

Zhar watches her. "Bastila," he says, disappointed.

She freezes. Abruptly she is an initiate again, being scolded for failing to uphold the ideals to which she pledged her life. What has she been saying— _what_ was she thinking? "I—I am sorry, Master," she says, slumping. "I . . . that was uncalled for. I—I only meant that—I didn't—"

"Be wary of your emotions," says Zhar. "And see to it that you keep your temper in check."

"Yes, Master," she says softly.

He casts her a considering look, folding his arms, weight back. He purses his lips, then says, "However, you do raise a valid point. And one of our goals was to draw out information on the Sith through your bond with Revan—that was your idea, was it not?"

"Yes . . ."

Zhar nods. "Then I will inform Master Vandar and the Admiral of your choice of crew."

"Thank you," says Bastila.

He smiles wearily. "You're most welcome. Bastila . . . If we—if _I_ —seem overprotective, know that it is not because I doubt your abilities. It is because I worry about you, as I do all my students. But as you are central to the war effort, you are in greater danger . . . It is a teacher's nightmare."

"Attachment, Master Zhar?" she says.

"Don't be impertinent," he chides, though his eyes are twinkling.

**o.O.o**

They receive their assignments in the small hours of the morning. Quite a wake-up. The day will be one massive whisper-fest as the crew ascertain who is going where, and with whom.

Sen's notification is festooned with more warnings for secrecy than an insurgent group's mailing list. When she opens it, she can see why. Bastila Shan, in command of a cruiser?

This Jedi has a talent for complicating things.

So. For some reason, she's about to be placed under much closer watch. The Jedi tried to interrogate her before resorting to their botched reprogramming. Could they be about to try again? But what do they hope to accomplish when Revan is, at least as far as they know, completely gone?

. . . Unless they don't believe she's gone. If they know, if they suspect she remembers—but no, they'd never let her run loose if they had even the slightest suspicion that she might be a danger to the Republic. Any further layers of deception would be uncharacteristically sneaky of the Council. They are manipulative, yes, but not _clever_.

She scowls, shaking her head. Whatever the Jedi's plans, she has to escape, and soon.

The _Endar Spire_ 's first mission is to rendezvous with the Taris Defense Fleet and add its contingent to the Republic navy. While there is a regular set of units and battle groups not affiliated with any particular system, the bulk of its forces are local detachments who fly under Republic colors, so to speak. The TDF is one of them—and one of the least reliable, in Revan's experience. Self-interested, shortsighted cowards from a greedy, grubby little planet.

But they'll fight hard if Taris is threatened. That, too, she knows from experience.

Her first instinct is to stage a dramatic escape—arrange an ambush near Taris, allow the Republic, their allies, and the Sith to beat each other senseless, slip away planetside during the fighting, lie low in the less well-policed areas of the planet, then find passage off-world and start looking for answers . . .

A gamble that she will lose. She growls under her breath, glaring at the manifest. From a purely self-interested perspective, there's no way to predict what might happen during a space battle. Ships log when escape pods are launched, and her use of one would raise every alarm imaginable among the Jedi. And escape pods, as she has discovered the hard way, are not to be relied upon to keep oneself safe. Starfighters are too well-guarded, or would be in use. All in all, there are too many variables, too many ways it could all go wrong.

And . . . casualties. People like Veska and Pol and Trask. The mere thought leaves her sickened. It's equal odds which part of her, Revan or Sen, is more appalled by the idea of risking so many on such a slim chance of success, for an endeavor that, in the grand scheme of things, is simply petty. Her history is not worth their lives.

(If success was guaranteed, though . . . She shies away from that line of thought.)

There is one more factor to consider: even if she _did_ manage to get to the surface intact, Taris is the most unpleasant, uncooperative, ungrateful cesspool of a planet she ever had the displeasure of liberating from the Mandalorians.

No. This plan is not just risky. It is _terrible._

New plan.

It's nigh-impossible to escape from a starship while it's in space. And if she waits until the _Endar Spire_ completes its maiden voyage to Taris, she'll have no guaranteed time planetside until her next shore leave—if and when the Republic sees fit to grant it to an employee ostensibly recruited from the wrong side of the law. Either way, she'd be under Bastila Shan's eye for far too long in the interim.

The sooner she gets out of here, the better. She'll have a few days on Coruscant before the Jedi arrive. She'd be a fool to waste the opportunity.

**o.O.o**

"Got your orders?" Veska asks, not looking up from her workstation as Sen and Pol sit down.

Pol gulps. "I'm on the _Infinite Splendor_ ," he says.

Veska doesn't quite punch the air in triumph—that'd be too demonstrative by far—but she comes close. "Good, same. Tethis?"

"The _Endar Spire_ ," she says. That, at least, isn't classified; only the mission and the commander are.

Pol and Veska exchange a glance. "Oh," says Pol.

Sen forces a smile and spreads her hands— _what can you do?_ "The _Spire_ 's straight out of the shipyards. This will be its first mission," she says, for lack of anything else to offer. Useless information fills the silence, though. She'll take it.

"Aye, there'll be none of this breaking down every few parsecs," Pol says. "Mind you, I hear these new ships are buggier than a hive of Verpines, so . . ."

"Traditionalist," Veska says.

"What? I like a lady with some experience!"

Veska smacks his arm.

**o.O.o**

Bastila reaches out and hesitates. This could go horrifically wrong. But she's as ready as she will ever be, and she must try, if nothing else. She presses the door chime button, smooths her hands down her tunic, and waits.

Chena opens the door. Her entire bearing is defensive, closed off. "What."

"I will leave if you wish, but first, I must say something."

Chena scowls, but doesn't protest.

Bastila takes a breath. "I'm sorry," she says. "I had no right to presume to know your mind or your feelings, or to attempt to police them while you were in pain. It was wrong, and my arrogance hurt you. And for that, I apologize."

For a moment, she fears she has misstepped again, as Chena stares at her, utterly without expression. Then the Guardian closes her eyes. "Okay," she whispers.

"I should—I should go," Bastila says.

"No—don't," Chena says. "Just . . . Could you come in?"

Surprised, Bastila stutters out her assent and follows her inside. It has changed little since the last time she was here. The holo lies on the bedspread now, Iylos and the lost children smiling and laughing in an endless loop. On the bedside table, the painted mug is spidered with hairline cracks, and the entire room smells faintly of adhesive.

"Bastila . . . I owe you an apology, too," Chena says haltingly. "You were trying to help, and I didn't . . . I shouldn't have attacked you, on the shuttle—"

Bastila coughs. "Yes, well, I was being a bit of an ass, so . . ."

Chena's laugh takes them both by surprise. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and exhales, leaning against the wall. "It's . . . it's been hard. Not just since Iylos died. Ersanne . . . I grew up there. So when the Sith attacked, it was personal. All that training, and I just . . . lost it. Iylos, he—he was always more of a figure-it-out-for-yourself kind of master. I guess he thought I'd learn better if he let things play out. Never did, though. I was so furious when Master Zhar said we'd been reassigned to protect you. It felt like I was abandoning my home."

"Oh," says Bastila.

"And I took it out on you," Chena continues. "At the beginning, and after Iylos . . . He'd be disappointed in me for that, for choosing to forget that I'm not the only person who's lost someone. So . . . I'm sorry, too."

"It's all right," Bastila tries to say, but Chena cuts her off.

"No, it's not."

She looks away, then, fumbling for words. Eventually she says, "I think it will be, in time."

Chena half-smiles. She slides down the wall, gesturing for Bastila to join her. They sit side by side for a while, the Force going still and quiet between them.

"Who was your master?" Chena asks softly.

Bastila fidgets with the sleeves of her robe. "Daen Owyn," she says. "He served in the war against Exar Kun, along with his apprentices. He used to say that if we survived that, we have no business losing hope now."

"Have you met them?"

"One of them, yes," says Bastila. "Quatra. She was his first apprentice. She has a student of her own now. The other . . . He died. Years ago."

Chena draws in a short, sharp breath. "Can you. You know. Talk to her at all? About him. Daen."

"I have not spoken with Quatra in . . . years," Bastila says.

Chena nods jerkily. "Right. Just—it might help. I'm Iylos's only surviving apprentice," she says, all in a rush.

"What happened? If you don't mind my asking, that is," says Bastila.

Chena's laugh is broken and bitter. "Revan happened. Two of them followed her to the Unknown Regions, and the other was killed by the Sith when they came back."

"I'm—sorry."

"Yeah, we're all fracking sorry." The back of her head thunks against the wall panel as she tilts it back to stare at the cool-burning ceiling lights. "It's just that I'm all that's left of him, in a way. And I'm not good enough."

"You're more than good enough," says Bastila.

"This is war, Bastila. Anybody could die."

"Don't you _dare._ "

"I don't intend to!" says Chena. "But things happen. And if it comes down to your life or mine, it has to be yours."

Bastila recoils from the very idea. Intellectually she's well aware that, as the Republic's sole Jedi capable of Battle Meditation, she's far more valuable to the war effort than yet another Guardian, the most common specialization among the Order's many branches and enclaves. But on a visceral level, she rebels against the thought of weighing lives like that. It's unfair, that by some quirk of fate or fortune she has become the _asset_ that every other Jedi must protect with their lives. It's horrific.

And it may well be absolutely necessary.

"Iylos would want you to live," she says. "And—and so do I."

**o.O.o**

Coruscant. The crown jewel of the Republic. Inviolate, eternal, awe-inspiring. Tens of billions of sentients seethe over its surface, its kilometers-high towers soaring to the very edge of the troposphere to accommodate them. The populace is happily insulated from the perils of the greater galaxy, the Senate is so short-sighted it can barely see to the other side of the Rotunda, and the Jedi in their shining Temple are too preoccupied with navel-gazing to take action until it's far too late.

She still loves it.

For all its faults, Coruscant is one of the few places she ever called home. She inhales, and grins. There's a certain smell to the air, a sharp edge from the atmospheric scrubbers like nothing else in the galaxy. It was strange and even frightening, when she arrived here as a Padawan fresh from Dantooine. She remembers Master Kae sending her out into the city with nothing but an emergencies-only comlink and her wits.

"What am I even looking for?" she said plaintively.

"Coruscant is old beyond all reckoning. You, however, are young and impudent." Kae shoved her out of the Temple, then. "Return when you understand how it has survived all these long millennia, and no earlier, or I will inform the Council just who snuck into the Archives her first night on-planet."

She blanched and ran off.

"Wait up, Sen!"

She can't allow herself to get so lost in memories that she neglects the present. She turns to Pol and Veska, both just exiting the Republic military base's temporary barracks. "So what's the plan?" she asks as the three of them fall into step, making their way across the compound. "One night before you two ship out . . ."

"I say we go somewhere we can eat, drink, and pretend not to blubber into our mugs," Pol says cheerfully.

"Works for me."

"No blubbering," Veska grunts.

"I just said, we're denying any and all accusations of blubbering," says Pol. "You cannot prove anything!"

As the shadows lengthen and the lights of the city begin to ignite in their towers, they wander the streets surrounding the Republic base. Eventually they find a remarkably non-seedy bar a few blocks away, already packed with off-duty personnel and a few locals. Sen scans the crowd. She recognizes a few people from the _Monument_ , but for the most part they're all strangers.

Pol peels off to start a tab; Veska and Sen go find a spot. They have to settle for a table barely large enough for two, stuffed in a corner. Sen hooks an ankle around a chair leg and drags it over, leaving the seat closest to the bar for Pol. Everything reeks of cigarra smoke. A band plays an inoffensive percussion-heavy song on the stage towards the front of the room. The wall at Sen's back hums slightly along with the bass line.

She spots Julnar Kess entering the bar, noting her position, and proceeding to melt into the background. Which is impressive, for a man with bright red hair. She gives no sign she's seen him.

Pol finds them and sets down three glasses of something aggressively blue. "Your beverages, ladies," he says, scrunching into his seat.

They don't say anything for a few minutes. It's not an uncomfortable silence, just . . . uncertain.

"We looked into the _Endar Spire_ ," Veska says abruptly, making Sen jump. "No wonder you didn't say much about it. Everything's classified. Classified means important. Which means dangerous." She pins Sen in a level stare. "Don't get killed out there."

"Really don't," says Pol, face drawn with genuine worry. "I mean, it's one thing when it's an ordinary posting like the _Splendor_. It's another when the whole thing's so hushed-up even _we_ can't find out what's going on."

Sen's throat goes dry. She swallows. "I'll be careful," she says. "You, too, all right? Stay safe."

"We will," says Veska.

Jedi condemn attachment. Sith condemn dependence.

To hell with them both. Tonight, she's Sen Tethis.

Tomorrow, she'll run.

**o.O.o**

_end part one_

 


	9. Collision

_In which it all comes crashing down._

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

Sen wakes up and takes a minute to appreciate the small luxuries in life. Like soft beds, and privacy. Funny how those can seem palatial after two days locked in the brig on suspicion of murder.

Fine, more than suspicion. She did shoot the guy in full view of about twenty Republic security officers.

She's trying to knot her bootlaces one-handed when the _Endar Spire_ lurches, its hyperdrive cutting out with a tortured groan. Off-balance, she falls sideways, and her kolto-patched shoulder hits the side of the bed. She hisses in pain, bracing herself against the mattress as she retrieves what little gear the MPs allowed her to bring aboard—her datapad, comlink, and nothing else. No weapons. Which is bad, if this is what she thinks it is.

She stands up with effort and crosses to the door. She punches the button. Nothing happens. She hits it again. Still nothing. The ship rocks and rattles as _whatever_ is attacking them fires another salvo.

"Shit," Sen says, dropping to her knees and prying open the access panel for the door mechanism. Hooking up her datapad, she runs a diagnostic. " _Shit!_ "

Total lockdown. None of the doors are working; they'll have to be sliced or blown open. And this does not make any sense whatsoever if the ship's under attack—standard procedure is to facilitate crew mobility, unless there've been multiple hull breaches, in which case those sections alone should be sealed off—

Something hammers at the door. A muffled, slightly breathless voice calls out, "Sen? You in there?"

_You're on the_ Endar Spire _?_ she wants to say, but she doesn't. The universe is so rarely this kind. Better to accept it for now and be incredulous later. "Trask!" she shouts. "Door's sealed!"

"One sec . . ." The door hisses open; Sen jumps to her feet, unplugs the datapad, and exits the room as quickly as possible, nearly bowling Trask over as he steps away from the hall panel. "Hey, hey, easy. You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says shortly. "What the hell is going on?"

"We've been ambushed by a Sith battle fleet," says Trask. "They had Interdictors set up just inside the Taris system—they yanked us out of hyperspace. Internal comms are out, the whole ship's on lockdown, and last I heard the Nav people were picking up troop ships en route."

He must've sprinted down here; no wonder he's out of breath. "Boarding parties," Sen mutters. So this isn't just a random attack—otherwise they'd already be sucking vacuum. This was planned. The Sith must have discovered that Bastila Shan was on board, and laid a trap. "Great. What's the plan?"

Another explosion rocks the ship, and Trask's face goes tight and worried. "Open the main corridors, get any combat-ready crew we can find up and mobile. We're helpless with the lockdown, and not everyone can slice the blast doors."

She nods once. There's usually a few minutes between first shots fired and the boarders' arrival. A very few minutes. Not enough time to reach the escape pods, but maybe enough to get close. "So let's open some doors."

"Sen, you're injured. You're technically not—"

She gives him a look. He shuts up and hands her a blaster.

Apparently, the terrible escape plan has become her only feasible option. Joy of joys.

**o.O.o**

_97 hours ago . . ._

Sen comes along to see Veska and Pol off when the transport up to the _Infinite Splendor_ arrives in the morning. Pol's slightly teary farewell is unsurprising. "Ach, sorry," he says, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I don't like goodbyes."

She squeezes his shoulder, at a loss for words. She is shocked, however, when Veska pulls her into a brief, tight embrace. "See you around," she says, taking a step back as if nothing at all happened.

Sen gapes for a moment, then gets ahold of herself. "I—Thank you," she says. "Thank you both. For . . . for everything."

And then they're boarding the shuttle and it's taking off and they are gone.

She remains on the landing pad, watching the glow of the shuttle's rear engines recede and fade as the sky cools from fiery dawn to pale daylight. Then she turns on her heel and heads back into the barracks. The _Endar Spire_ leaves at 2100 hours tomorrow. She needs to be long gone by then.

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

Carth swears as airlock after airlock is blown, Sith troop carriers disgorging their passengers onto the _Spire_. "We've got at least sixty on board already, and they're all headed this way," he calls out.

"Can we call for aid from the TDF?" Bastila says from the rear of the bridge, her voice remarkably level.

Carth scowls. The Tarisian rep on board the _Spire_ is nowhere to be seen. The man was supposed to help liaise with the planetary defenses, but Carth hasn't seen him in nearly an hour—if he's somehow involved in all this, the TDF might have a very good reason to stay out of the battle. "Deleon, please tell me you've got something."

The comms specialist slams a hand into the console in front of him. "We're trying, sir, but we're blocked on all the normal frequencies—give it a minute—"

"We don't have a minute!"

A pause. "Their personal communicators," Deleon says, inputting commands with flying fingers. "They use a different frequency. We can't reach the TDF but we can get orders to the crew— _yes!_ Lieutenant, we have internal comms."

"Good job," says Carth. Then he mashes the broadcast button. "This is Lieutenant Onasi. The _Endar Spire_ has been boarded—the Sith are threatening to overwhelm our position. We can't hold out for long against their firepower. All hands to the bridge!" He glances at Deleon. "They're broadcasting the jamming signal from one of their own arrays, right?"

"Yes, sir, it's the frigate off to starboard. She's pinging as the _Retribution_."

He turns back to the makeshift intercom. "Gunnery crews, concentrate your fire on the _Retribution_ 's communications array!"

A tense second of static. He prays that the message got through. Then: _"Copy that, Lieutenant."_

Carth watches through the viewport as the _Endar Spire_ 's turbolaser banks hammer at the enemy ship. Now it's a matter of which gives out first—their shields, or the Sith's.

**o.O.o**

_92 hours ago . . ._

She exits the Republic base just before midday, having spent the intervening time collecting a few useful odds and ends from around the compound. Security spikes and tunnelers from the tech department, mostly, left unattended while the slicers broke for lunch. She doesn't bring anything she can't carry on her person without a backpack—she can't look like she intends to leave permanently.

Non-combatant personnel are allowed off-base provided that they're not on duty and receive permission from their department heads. Iden Kalorn is more than happy to sign her out. "Go enjoy the city a bit," he says. "I know it gets pretty tedious on starships."

"Always did want to see Coruscant," she says, already drifting away. If memory serves her—for once—her goal shouldn't be too far. Just a few blocks away laterally, and several levels down. She walks it, doubling back on herself a few times to confuse her route, keeping to well-traveled paths, joining a knot of Coruscanti citizens headed in her direction. As the group draws level with the alley she wants, she slips between them and ducks into the quieter byway.

It's no grimy alley filled with garbage and spice junkies; it's just a narrow space between two generic office buildings. There are a few crates midway down its length, weather-stained but intact. Sen ducks behind the pile, feeling along the wall until she finds a certain protrusion—apparently nothing more than a rivet in the durasteel—and pushes it. It flips open to reveal an access panel with an alphanumeric keypad.

She ignores the interface and roots around among the wires behind the panel. Pulling a few loose, she connects them to her datapad and boots it up.

Slicing the hidden access panel is the work of a minute. A rectangular section of the wall sinks back, then slides leftwards with a faint whirr of hydraulics. She steps through the resultant gap, and it hisses shut behind her. It's dark inside the chamber, the air cool and dry. Cyclers are still working, evidently. She gropes around for a light; her fingertips brush the switch, and the cramped chamber is thrown into stark relief.

A few months before her capture, she dispatched an assassin to Coruscant to take out a deserter rumored to be hiding in the lower levels. Jaq Rand led the assassin on a merry chase before killing him and vanishing off-planet. The cache set up for the operative remains, though, and she can use it. Suddenly all those tedious mission reports are actually paying off.

Crates and boxes are stacked in neat rows. Lockers of armor and civilian clothing line the walls. Weapons, too—none of official Sith make, but all high-quality. Blasters, grenades, a few mines, vibroblades, all gleaming, in perfect condition. She selects a blaster pistol and a sword, fastening holster and scabbard to either side of her belt.

A voice, from outside. "Echo seven three zero eight," it says. The door beeps and begins to unlock again.

Sen bites back a curse. She hunts around, then seizes a stealth belt and slings it over her shoulder like a bandolier. She activates it and hits the lights, pressing her back to the wall and holding her breath.

A plain-looking human enters the cache. Brown hair, light skin, forgettable face, generic clothing for a lower-mid-level Coruscanti citizen. He looks vaguely familiar—could have been one of hers, maybe? He moves with fluid precision, every motion exactly what he intends. Sen doesn't make a sound. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ —no dust, functioning air cyclers, of _course_ the cache's still in use.

The Sith operative opens a locker on the wall adjacent to the door. Rummaging around inside, he pulls out an armor set. Republic colors, red-orange and black and yellow. He efficiently dons the armor, then pulls the helmet low over his eyes. He pockets a datapad, presumably containing his false ID documents, and crosses the room to peruse the weaponry.

Sen's eyes are inexorably drawn to the gaps in the lineup. One blaster, one vibroblade. Two among many, but every other slot on the racks is full. The empty spaces stand out like missing teeth in an otherwise perfect smile.

The operative pauses in front of the racks.

Sen forces herself to breathe slowly and silently. Her heart tries to batter its way out of her ribcage.

The operative activates his communicator. "Sir, someone's been into the cache," he says, voice a low rumble.

_"When?"_ comes the static-ridden reply.

"Within the past three days. Been a while since I was here."

_"We'll look into it. Continue the mission."_

"Yes, sir. Besh out." He lowers the communicator and selects a high-powered blaster rifle and a pair of knives from the remaining weapons, sliding the knives into forearm sheaths and giving the rifle a professional once-over.

Besh. Yes, she knows this one. Efficient killer, didn't ask questions, got the job done and moved on. Like Rand, until he vanished. She'd almost prefer the traitor to Besh, though—because Besh is one of the few Sith agents to have seen her without the mask.

She's almost certain she made no sound. But the operative whips around and hurls one of the knives—it thuds into the wall six centimeters from her neck. She holds absolutely still. The operative frowns and peers around the room once more, then turns to leave.

Sen doesn't relax until he's out the door and the place is locked down again. Even then, it's only marginal. Slowly, she creeps towards the exit, drawing her blaster. A Sith agent just a few klicks from a Republic base, disguised as a Republic soldier? No way in hell she's sticking around for this.

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

The _Retribution_ 's shields go down, and the _Endar Spire_ 's gunnery crews destroy the comms tower with a final burst from the turbolasers.

Static hisses over the ship speakers—and then it clears, leaving an insistent beeping behind. Deleon's fingers fly over the console. "Lieutenant, Master Jedi, the Tarisians are hailing us."

Carth tries to rein in his relief. They're not out of this yet. "Open a channel," he barks.

"Aye, Lieutenant!"

Within seconds the voice of the TDF's commanding officer filters through the speakers, tinny and scratchy. " _Endar Spire_ , this is Taris Defense Fleet Commander Wodyn. We're picking up your signature and nearly a dozen Sith ships half an AU out. What's going on?"

"Ambush," Carth says sharply. "We need your help—"

"Your superiors told us this was a simple rendezvous, and we wouldn't be fighting until we reached the Perlemian," Wodyn says in confusion.

"Well, plans change," Carth snaps. "Now get your fleet moving, we're defenseless out here!"

". . . Copy that, _Endar Spire_."

"ETA?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Acknowledged. _Spire_ out." Carth glances at Bastila. "Good enough for you?"

But the kid's eyes are closed and she's breathing very steadily—Carth is about to start yelling at her when he realizes what she's doing. Battle Meditation. The bizarre clarity trickles through his mind, almost imperceptible unless you know what you're looking for.

"Okay, so she's out," he mutters. He dives into the mess of readouts and angrily beeping alarms. Time to organize some kind of defense of the ship until their allies show up.

Chena steps forward. "Lieutenant, I can sense at least five Dark Jedi headed this way."

His stomach flops. "Shit. We're sitting ducks up here." He reactivates the comm line to the crew's personal devices. "Onasi. Dark Jedi inbound to the bridge, we need backup _now_ , does anyone copy?"

**o.O.o**

_91 hours ago . . ._

Sen curses her inability to reach the Force. She'd love to know whether or not Besh is lying in wait for her out in the alley—which is a distinct possibility, if he thinks the intruder is still nearby. There's no way of knowing, though, so she exits as quickly and quietly as possible, crouching behind the crates by the door and listening for any sign of the operative.

Nothing. Regular city noises. She stands up and hurries towards the main street.

Stealth belts are effective at rendering stationary wearers entirely invisible to the naked eye. They are not, however, as effective if the wearer is in motion. The light-bending field distorts the image of whatever is behind the wearer, and that distortion worsens the faster they move relative to the background.

Sen lets out a sharp cry of pain as something buries itself in her shoulder—cutting through the edge of the stealth belt slung across it. The field fizzles and flickers, and she clutches at the knife as Besh steps out into the alley opening, silhouetted against the brighter light.

"Who are you?" he says, sounding almost bored.

She doesn't speak, merely shifting her blaster to her good left arm and taking aim, though her fingers are slippery with blood. She's got maybe twenty seconds before the stealth field goes, and then—

She flinches as the belt shorts out in a shower of sparks, leaving her fully visible.

Besh stares. "You," he says, shocked.

_Shit_.

She opens fire. Hits his side. Besh turns and flees, limping slightly, and she sprints after him, teeth clenched against the pain every jarring footfall hammers into her shoulder. It fucking _hurts_. But she cannot, _can not_ , let him live now. Forget whatever his mission was, whoever his target was. If he manages to report this—not good.

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

The port section of the _Endar Spire_ is almost clear of crew. Sen and Trask have been working their way across the deck, slicing blast doors and sending trapped crewmen along to the escape pods or the bridge. Onasi's message seems to have galvanized everyone—there's no panicking, no dithering, just calm efficiency.

Or it could be Bastila's Battle Meditation. Sen tries to shield her mind against outside influence, but without the Force it's hard to tell how effective she is.

She stops as they come upon a dead Republic soldier, his armor blackened and pitted by high-powered blaster bolts. "Boarding party's been through here," she says, kneeling beside the corpse. There's a stealth field generator around his waist; she fumbles with the catch.

"What are you doing?" says Trask.

"I've got one useable arm and the ship's crawling with Sith," she says. "I need some way to hold my own." So what if the last time she used one, it ended in disaster? She doesn't intend to get stabbed again if she can help it.

Trask hesitates, but helps her remove the generator and put it on before they continue onward.

They encounter their first boarding party at a T-junction of corridors near the entrance to the starboard section—regular soldiers, thankfully, four of them, dull gold armor gleaming as they stomp down the hall. Sen presses her back to the bulkhead, blaster pistol drawn, and looks at Trask. He counts down from three on his free hand, then turns the corner firing with Sen right behind him.

Surprised, the Sith scatter to the sides of the corridor for cover and return fire, forcing Trask to dive to the adjacent corner. Sen ducks behind hers, heartily wishing for a bit of judicious Force lightning to clear the way.

Then she starts smiling. She catches Trask's eye and mimes her intentions; he nods in understanding, then waves her forward. She holsters the blaster and activates the stealth belt. Slowly, slowly, she creeps around the corner, sliding along the wall as Trask lays down a steady stream of fire to keep the Sith from popping out of cover.

She reaches striking range. The foremost Sith trooper's vibroblade is sheathed at his left side, hilt pointing towards her. She steals it, draws it back, stabs him through the narrow gap between chestplate and abdominal armor, angling the blade up into his heart. He chokes wetly, dropping his blaster.

"Stealth trooper!" one of the other Sith shouts.

Sen keeps the corpse between her and the enemy as a shield, charging the nearest survivor and throwing him off-balance by shoving the body into him. Her left arm burns with the effort. Trask's blasterfire peppers the others as she brings her vibroblade down at the junction of the staggered soldier's neck and shoulder. Trask takes down the third Sith with a well-placed shot to the unarmored throat; the fourth, with a series of hits to the face that send him reeling long enough for Sen to finish him off.

**o.O.o**

_90 hours ago . . ._

Besh's communicator lies in charred pieces somewhere a few dozen floors down. She managed to blast it as he raised it to call his handler. The one good thing about emergency staircases in residential buildings—the open central area makes taking potshots at an enemy a bit easier.

Maybe the Force is with her after all. She avoided his return fire, anyway, so she'll take it.

They're nearly back to the Republic base, and Sen is tiring. Her right arm is tucked up against her torso, the otherwise useless stealth belt repurposed into a crude sling. Knife's still stuck through her. Last thing she needs is to lose more blood; she's already dizzy.

It occurs to her that he's not just running _from_ her; he's running _towards_ the base. Makes sense. Security team on the perimeter won't take kindly to a bloodstained nobody attacking a man in Republic uniform. He can let the MPs take care of her while he goes off to complete his mission.

She redoubles her efforts to catch up, ignoring the cries of protest from alarmed pedestrians as they come within a hundred meters of the security checkpoint.

Clear shot. It's an open area from here to the gate. She raises the blaster. There are shouts all around her—"Stop! Lower the weapon, _now_!"—she ignores them.

Aim. Nothing else matters. Breathe in, out—squeeze trigger.

Headshot. Besh goes down. She exhales, and lets the blaster fall from her hand, raising it in surrender and turning to face the approaching security officers.

Yeah. This is going to be _fun_.

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

Bastila maintains enough awareness to notice Carth's increasing agitation, Chena's grim resolve, the bridge crew's slow-festering fear. She washes that away, focuses on calming and inspiring them. They are the Republic's finest. She chose them for that reason. They can do this. They will—

But there's no one coming. She can sense the Sith intruders scattered throughout the _Endar Spire_ at critical choke points. One of the worst parts of fighting an enemy that once fought for the same side is that they know most of the tech in use by the Republic—including the layouts of their _Hammerhead-_ class ships. The _Spire_ 's defenders are being isolated and cut down with surgical precision, despite their own best efforts and her Battle Meditation—or perhaps she's not as effective as she ought to be, having been thrust into this situation on such short notice, unable to prepare—or these Sith operatives have been trained to recognize and repel her influence—

Excuses. They don't matter. The reality is that the Dark Jedi are coming.

Bastila opens her eyes and stops even trying to use Battle Meditation. "They're on the command deck," she says.

"Yeah, noticed that," Chena says. "Bastila, you have to get out of here. We're about to get overrun."

"That an admission of defeat?" says Carth.

Bastila winces, but it's true. "This is not a battle we can win. I'm sorry, Lieutenant."

He shakes his head. "Don't be. Nobody saw this coming."

**o.O.o**

_59 hours ago . . ._

Carth has spent the past few days familiarizing himself with the _Endar Spire_ 's layout, systems, and upgrades. He's as prepared as he can be—for a job he's half-convinced is going to amount to wrangling grouchy Jedi, apparent reconciliation or not. So he experiences no guilt whatsoever when he tunes out those Jedi's last-minute conference on their way to the shuttle on base. Let the ensigns deal with them for once; he's desperate for one final gasp of freedom.

He wanders a few meters away from Bastila and Chena on the landing pad, hands in his pockets, observing the last members of the crew as they file into the shuttle. Competent, probably. But trustworthy? He likes Bastila, trusts her with his back when they're under fire, but it has to be said that she's _not_ good with people. Reading them, predicting their actions, or dealing with their issues.

A wall of MPs shuffles towards the shuttle, surrounding a tall woman with a sour expression. Carth frowns and approaches them. "What's going on, here?" he asks.

"Just a precaution, sir," one of the MPs says. "She killed a man yesterday."

"Oh, come on, the guy was a Sith assassin," the woman says. "And he _stabbed_ me _._ " She gestures to the sling on her right arm.

"Wait, _what_?" says Carth.

"We're still not certain he was a Sith," the MP says grimly, "so here we are."

Carth stares at the woman. "And she's going on the _Endar Spire_ , why?"

"The Jedi want this one specifically," says the MP, casting her a glare at her. She throws him a saccharine, eyelash-fluttering smile. "I don't know why, but we've got our orders."

Carth frowns. "Who is she?"

"She," the woman says before her guards can get a word in, "is standing right here. Sen Tethis, former smuggler, currently a cryptographer under duress. What about you, Republic?"

Oh, great, a criminal with an attitude. He understands the necessity of bringing in people with unusual skill sets, but— _cryptography?_ Really? Aren't there thousands of eager young math graduates salivating for a chance to use their skills in the real world? His frown deepens. "I'm Lieutenant Carth Onasi. If you make trouble on my ship, Tethis, there'll be hell to pay."

"Sir, yes, sir," she mutters as the MPs haul her off.

Carth watches them go, then trots to catch up with Bastila and Chena. "Uh, Bastila?" he says. "Do you mind explaining what you're doing, letting a suspected murderer and confirmed criminal on the ship?"

Bastila breaks off her discussion to arch one eyebrow at him. He really kind of hates it when she gets all supercilious. Happened more than a few times back on the _Kassidon_. He can't hate _her_ , but damn, it's annoying. "Tethis is a skilled codebreaker, Lieutenant. The Republic needs all the help it can get."

"Yeah, but—"

"Lieutenant," Bastila says coolly, "I do hope you're not overstepping your bounds."

Carth grits his teeth. So it's 'Lieutenant,' now. Fine. "Sorry, ma'am. I just—I have a bad feeling about this."

"Noted," says Bastila. "I thank you for your concern, but I assure you, everything is under control."

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

"Commander Wodyn, we need help _now_ ," Carth is saying, voice rising in desperation.

"I'm sorry," the Tarisian says. "I truly am. But I cannot in good conscience risk my fleet on this—"

"If you don't, _we are going to die!_ Can your conscience handle that?" he roars.

"I am sorry," Wodyn repeats. "TDF out."

Carth slumps, and Bastila takes a deep breath as the entire bridge's emotional state plummets. The _Endar Spire_ shudders again. Shields at seven percent.

"Sir, just get her out of here," Deleon says quietly. "The deck-wide lateral corridors are sealed off. They'll have to come through here to reach the starboard section. We'll get you as close to the planet as possible."

Bastila looks around the bridge, at the regular crew and the ragtag assortment of soldiers and deck hands who have answered Carth's summons. They gaze back at her, bleak resolve in their eyes. "Thank you all," she says, voice breaking.

"Good luck, ma'am," says one of the soldiers.

Carth pulls her away, and Chena takes the rear.

**o.O.o**

_47 hours ago . . ._

Darth Malak listens to his agent's report with barely-concealed contempt. "Do you mean to tell me," he says, "that your operative was attacked—and killed— _and_ revealed to be Sith—in the presence of an entire base full of Republic personnel?"

The agent, a thin human with a crooked nose and a perfectly blank expression, is unperturbed. "He did, my lord," he says calmly, the holoprojector rendering his words somewhat grating. "However, Besh completed his primary objective nonetheless. In fact, the intel from his efforts has proven . . . interesting."

"Explain."

"His body was taken to the base hospital's morgue. There, the subcutaneous transmitter picked up several encrypted transmissions from the base to Admiral Dodonna's flagship. It would seem, my lord, that Bastila Shan departed from Coruscant on the RAS _Endar Spire_ just a few hours ago. She is bound for Taris, due to arrive in approximately two days' time."

Malak raises an eyebrow. "This is indeed _interesting_. You have done well." Taris is not so far out of the way that his ships cannot arrange a surprise welcome for the Jedi on her arrival.

The agent clears his throat. "Lord Malak, there is another matter . . . During our investigation into the cache break-in, we tapped into the local security network and pulled footage from the preceding several days. We ran it through facial recognition. I think you will find the likely culprit rather surprising."

"Get to the point."

"The evidence is inconclusive, but I have sent you the pertinent holos. They ought to be self-explanatory."

Malak scowls at him. Never a straight answer. He's tempted to have the man executed out of sheer frustration. "If they are not, Agent . . ."

He gives a respectful bow. "I'll let you be the judge of that, my lord."

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

Halfway to the escape pods, in the starboard armory, the bulkhead just behind them explodes, throwing Bastila, Chena, and Carth to the ground. Picking herself up, Bastila senses the enemy an instant before five black-clad Dark Jedi pour into the chamber from the adjoining one. She and Chena activate their lightsabers. The blue, gold, and red bars are the only steady illumination in the room as the overhead lights flicker.

"Surrender yourself, Bastila," says the lead Dark Jedi, a bald man with a goatee and an imperious look. "If you come quietly, your precious companions will be spared."

"Oh, yeah, right," says Chena. She flings out a hand, sweeps it to the side—the equipment lockers attached to the wall opposite the gaping hole rattle, then wrench from their moorings to smash into the Dark Jedi. All five of them are swatted back the way they came with a series of grunts and yelps of surprise or pain.

Bastila takes a step forward to press the advantage and finds herself blocked by Chena's arm. "What are you—"

"Go," Chena says, giving her a little shove. "I'll handle them—just go!"

"I can't just leave you here to—"

"My duty is to protect you, same as the rest of the crew," Chena says, her voice wavering but her eyes clear and certain. "You're—you're the Hope of the Republic, Bastila. You _have_ to make it off this ship alive. For all our sakes. Now go."

She wants to argue, to refuse to accept the inevitable. She wants to rage against what fate itself, it seems, has decreed. She wants to save this life— _one life_ , just one, is that so much to ask?—otherwise what is the point? What is the _point_ of saving the Republic if she cannot save the people she cares about?

. . . But that is not the Jedi way, she realizes, the knowledge sitting cold and bitter in her heart. It is selfishness. Attachment comes at much too high a cost. If it jeopardizes the Republic—her duty . . .

Bastila clasps her hand. "May the Force be with you," she whispers.

Chena smiles, tears in her eyes. "And with you."

She lets go. And she runs.

Behind her, Chena strides towards the Dark Jedi through smoke and fire and sparks, alone.

**o.O.o**

_46 hours ago . . ._

Malak stares, expressionless, at the frozen holoimage. _Impossible_ , he wants to scoff. There was no way for her to survive the destruction of the _Crusader_. This must be a coincidence, a chance resemblance—she is not precisely as he remembers her, hair too long, eyes too dark, not a single mark of the dark side on her. And the reports claim there was no sign of the Force being used as she chased Besh to his death.

And yet . . . and yet. There's something in her expression as she fires the shot that killed him. He knows that look. He knows her.

Somewhere within the shrieking discord of the Dark Side, there is a strain of quiet, insistent sound, high and plaintive. He crushes it mercilessly. Whatever they were to each other before they left the Republic, whatever he felt . . . He is stronger than their shared past. He was strong enough to betray her.

But not, evidently, strong enough to kill her.

"Revan," he says. The vocabulator hums against the back of his ruined throat. And he recalls exactly why he despises her.

She was not strong enough to kill him, either.

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

They've fought their way through to the starboard section—which wasn't easy to do left-handed, stealthed or not—found themselves too late to save _anyone_ on the bridge, much less Bastila, and they're just a few rooms away from the pod bay when Sen stops dead on the threshold. "Damn," she breathes. The room's a mess, the walls torn apart and scored by deep, blackened gouges. Overhead, the lights are shattered, bleeding sparks, emitting fitful bursts of white in their death throes. Dark Jedi lie in various states of dismemberment all over the floor.

"We should move on," Trask says, uneasy, but Sen hesitates to simply leave. She picks her way through the carnage, kneels down by one of the corpses. Did she know this Dark Jedi? Did she know any of them? Did they follow her willingly, or were they _converts_ brought in by people like Besh and Rand?

"Sen," Trask says, "come on. We have to get going."

She shakes her head to clear it. "Sorry. You're right." But she pauses before standing up again, taking a fallen lightsaber from the floor and hooking it on her belt.

They move on.

Their comlinks chirp simultaneously. _"Onasi here. I'm tracking you through the ship's life support systems. Bastila's escape pod is away—we three are the last surviving crew members aboard the_ Endar Spire _,"_ he says, his voice forcibly clear of emotion. _"There are a few more Sith between you and the pods, and I can't reach you without letting them into the pod bay. Stay sharp."_

"Acknowledged, sir," Trask says. He looks at Sen. "Do you get the feeling we just stepped into a horror vid?"

"What, the flickering lights and rapidly-cooling bodies weren't enough of a heads-up?" says Sen.

Trask laughs a little and keys in the code for the next room.

The door hisses open. There is a black-haired woman in Jedi robes lying on the ground, empty blue eyes staring up at nothing, a charred circle burned through her heart. There is a Dark Jedi with a double-bladed lightsaber standing over her. He whirls around to face them, bald pate gleaming in the dimness. Bandon. One of Malak's favorite attack dogs. Ruthless, brutal, and utterly devoted to the dark side. By the time Malak turned on her, Bandon had caused more damage to Sith property and personnel with his careless displays of power than the average Jedi Knight.

A contemptible individual.

"Oh shit," Trask says, but he doesn't back away. He raises his sword and says, "I'll hold him off—you get to the escape pods. Go!"

For a second, she considers it. He's offering, after all. One less Republic lackey to worry about. One less impediment to achieving her goals. All it would take is for her to do nothing—

He taught her how to fight again. He went to find her when he could have gone straight to safety.

_Screw this._

He starts to charge. Sen lunges one step, two, seizes Trask's arm. She doesn't bring him to a halt—she can't; she doesn't have the strength or the mass to pull it off—but spins around to force him along an arcing path. She lets go, and he stumbles back into the room from which they came. Hand freed, she takes out the dead Dark Jedi's lightsaber, activates it, and stabs it into the door console. The door automatically shuts and seals itself at the energy discharge.

She breathes again.

Trask is staring at her. "Thanks," he says hoarsely.

"Don't fucking throw your life away on some suicidal heroic impulse," Sen growls, pointing the lightsaber at him for emphasis, then twitching it towards the other door. "Let's go. That won't hold him for long."

As if in punctuation, a red-glowing blade slices through the blast door, the metal going molten around it.

"Yeah," Trask says. "We should . . . yeah."

**o.O.o**

_24 hours ago . . ._

"So we pick up the Tarisians, shepherd them to Dodonna's fleet along the Perlemian, and . . . then what?"

Bastila sips her tea peaceably. "I expect we'll do much what we always have."

Chena snorts and picks at her scrambled eggs. "Yeah, you save the day while I watch you concentrate and breathe."

"You find titanic space battles to be boring?"

"You know that saying about how the best pilots make awful passengers? It's like that." She scrunches up her face. "Although I guess it'd be a better analogy if we were talking about _ground_ battles, but, well, same principle."

"Hmm. I'm dreadfully sorry you won't be in mortal peril, Chena."

They share a laugh, for once comfortable in one another's presence, enjoying a relaxing breakfast in Bastila's quarters as the _Endar Spire_ travels through hyperspace. They're not entirely content—Chena still grieves, and Bastila still worries—but neither has reason to distrust or resent the other. Bastila swirls her tea around in its mug, plain sturdy ceramic intended for hard use. "I can hardly believe Master Zhar and Admiral Dodonna approved my command of this vessel," she admits after a moment. "It's a great deal of responsibility."

"Yeah, it is," says Chena. "Sink or swim, Bastila."

She frowns. "That's . . . not particularly comforting."

"Hey, you did fine with Centares and Serenno. You can do this."

Bastila longs to confess the true source of her anxieties—the woman currently incarcerated in the brig until Republic investigators confirm that the man she killed was, in fact, a Sith spy. Bastila believes he was based on the evidence presented and Sen Tethis's testimony, but the word of a Jedi, while persuasive, is not enough to speed the wheels of justice.

That she killed once more is disquieting. Bastila had hoped to keep her away from immediate danger so as to never force the issue, but danger seems to have found her anyway. She does not want to find out what will happen to Sen's programmed identity under extreme circumstances—whether she will remain an innocuous codebreaker, or rekindle the dark side within her.

And Bastila still must extract the source of the Sith's power from her mind, without alerting her to their connection or her latent abilities.

"I hope so," Bastila murmurs.

**o.O.o**

_Now . . ._

"You made it just in time!" Onasi says as Sen and Trask dash into the escape pod bay and lock the door behind them. "Looks like the Sith are bugging out, so I'm expecting one hell of a barrage real soon."

"We set to go?" Sen asks.

Onasi nods and taps the launch prep console. The last escape pod in the bay dilates like an ancient camera aperture. "Hope you don't mind things getting a little cozy," he says.

Trask laughs uncomfortably. Sen gives a sweeping bow and an after-you gesture. "Grunts before nerds," she says.

"You're an honorary grunt," mutters Trask, but he clambers into the pod without protest. Sen follows, then Onasi. She watches the aperture contract, and feels sick. The last time she was in one of these things, she was concussed, her lung was punctured, and she was stuck with Bastila Shan. And the unexplained Force maelstrom nearly killed them both, thus allowing the Jedi to land her in this mess in the first place . . .

Her life would probably have been simpler if she hadn't evaded the explosion on the _Crusader_ 's bridge. Shorter, maybe, but simpler.

She puts on the safety harness and tightens the straps. Now she just has to wait for the inevitable crash landing.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_

 


	10. Fugitives

_In which, to the shock of absolutely no one, Taris fails to impress._

**o.O.o**

There is something outside the escape pod.

Bastila can hear it, a wet growling noise coupled with a sense of _hunger_. A mind twisted into nothing but voracious appetite. There's a scratching sound, claws perhaps, scrabbling for purchase on the pod's smooth exterior. She presses herself into the seat and tries to think about this rationally—she is safe here from whatever it is; it can't get in alone, and even if it does she has a lightsaber. Her fear is natural and expected. She simply mustn't allow it to dictate her actions.

She's going to be fine. She did not survive the Sith assault on the _Endar Spire_ to be eaten by monsters in the dark. She is a Jedi, and she is not afraid.

The thing outside whines and scrapes again at the hatch. Bastila stands up, stepping quietly across the cabin. She ignites the lightsaber and gestures with her free hand towards the hatch release. It hisses open. The creature outside freezes and stares at her for the span of a heartbeat, its eyes reddened and weeping, its pale flesh gleaming stickily in the yellow light.

The creature shrieks and slashes at her with ragged claws. Bastila gives the thing a sharp Force push. It flies backwards, lands hard on the soot-dusted ground, and picks itself up, baring its teeth and snarling. Claws flexing, it charges forward again. Bastila steps out of the pod and strides forward to meet it—she sidesteps its grasping arms and slices down and diagonally with her lightsaber. The creature howls in pain. She finishes it off with a quick reversal of her saber, and its head falls into the soot.

She pauses then, extending her senses through the Force. She fell a long way below the glittering surface of the Tarisian megalopolis, the pod crashing against structures made of polished durasteel and ornamental stone. It was not yet dawn as she plummeted through Taris's atmosphere; here, the only illumination is a dull, dirty orange glow from ancient sodium bulbs set at intervals along the foundations of the skyscrapers, and the faintest glimmer of light from windows high above. It's quiet, but not entirely silent. Unseen things slither and creep through the rubble and wreckage strewn across the ground. All of it hungry, all of it focused on the dead creature at her feet. They sense blood, meat, food. They chitter and croak in anticipation, eager to move in once she leaves their prize unattended. They fear her.

They're not the only beings out here.

Bastila stiffens as she senses sentient minds approaching. Half a dozen of them, perhaps. Not Sith, but neither do they feel particularly benevolent, muddied by ordinary greed and indifference. She glances around—the shadows are deep and long; she can hide, stay out of sight. She shuts off her lightsaber and darts for the gloom beneath an overhang, crouching behind a pile of rubble. She pulls herself deep into her own mind, minimizing her presence as Master Vrook once taught her. _Don't look at me. Don't notice me. I'm not important. I'm not here._

"(I don't like this,)" a low voice says in gravelly Huttese. "(Rakghouls might've been scared off by the crash, but they'll be back soon—)"

"Yeah, tell that to Brejik," mutters a second voice. "Look, we don't do this now, we do it when he finds out we passed up perfectly good salvage. And then he'll be _pissed_."

Bastila slows her breathing, her fingertips brushing the ground. Their footsteps crunch nearer, splitting into several groups to pick over the wreckage. She can see them around the side of the rubble pile—two humans, a Twi'lek, a Rodian, a pair of Weequays. All men, armed and armored.

The Rodian stands in the doorway of the empty pod, posture stiffening as he examines the dead creature. "(Looks like we just missed someone,)" he says slowly, glancing at the others, hand dropping to the blaster at his side.

One of the humans signals his compatriots with a sharp gesture. Instantly, the salvagers draw their blasters, spreading out to search the area. Bastila shrinks back. She has to get out of here. Quietly. She retreats step by step until her back is pressed to the wall. Then she calls upon the Force to surge strength through her limbs—she dashes through the shadows of the overhang, preternaturally fast, hoping against hope that the salvagers will remain oblivious to her presence—

"Over there!"

She runs faster. At least until the salvagers begin firing stun rounds in her direction; one of them grazes the side of her leg, and she stumbles as the limb spasms with pain and collapses under her, useless. She turns the fall into an inelegant dive-roll—another stunner thrums through where her midsection had been a moment previously. But she can't stand up, she can't keep running, and there's no cover in reach.

Bloody hell. Bastila draws her lightsaber once more and ignites the blades. Clear gold light lances through the dimness, whirling to deflect the stun bolts back at their sources. One of the Weequays manages to gabble out "(Shit, it's a Jedi—!)" before his own stunner strikes his torso and renders him unconscious. The other salvagers hesitate, then renew their barrage. Bastila senses two of them circling around, trying to flank her. She spreads a hand, concentrates, and scoops up a hundred kilos or so of gravel and dust with a sweeping gesture, then flings them at the pair in a storm of tiny projectiles to batter them down.

But as she splits her attention between deflecting bolts and using the Force, she fails to notice the stun grenade rolling towards her until it's far too late.

**o.O.o**

Sen doesn't quite manage to stifle a strangled cry of pain. Her safety harness did its job—she did not go flying across the cabin and concuss herself on the opposite wall when they hit the ground—but it certainly jarred her shoulder. Which is bleeding again, through the kolto patch and her jacket. Great.

"You okay?" Trask says.

She extricates herself from the harness, then presses the heel of her left hand over the wound. "I will be once we're out of this deathtrap," she growls.

Onasi-call-me-Carth—there wasn't much time for more in-depth conversation while they were all plummeting through the atmosphere—stands up as far as he can in the cramped space, shuffling over to the door aperture and fiddling with the controls. He huffs out a breath. "Jammed. Of course it's jammed. Who decided it'd be a good idea to design escape pods from which you need to find a way to escape?"

"We're stuck in here? Really?" says Trask, thunking his head against the panel behind him in irritation.

Sen coughs and produces the lightsaber from her belt. "Not quite."

"You two took down a Dark Jedi?" Carth says, surprised.

"That Jedi Guardian did, but . . . she didn't make it," says Trask.

Carth's face falls, and he looks away.

Sen tosses the lightsaber to Trask, who activates it gingerly, then starts cutting through the door. A minute later, there's a hole large enough to clamber out of, its edges glowing red-hot and stinking of scorched metal. Trask pokes his head through and peers around. "Looks clear."

One by one, they hop down onto the surface of Taris—for whatever value _surface_ holds when the planet's land masses are entirely covered in layers upon layers of city development. They've landed in the predawn longitudes, in an open space punctuated by the occasional lonely speeder or swoop. A parking lot, apparently. They seem to have crushed a few during the crash, but at least they didn't hit any buildings. Or, well, people.

"Okay," says Carth, checking that his blaster is secured at his hip. "First priority. Bastila's down here somewhere and we need to find her."

Sen twitches. That is the _very last thing_ she wants to spend time and energy doing. "We have no idea whether or not she survived the battle," she says. "Our _priority_ is staying alive and under the radar. Taris isn't friendly to people who ask too many questions."

"The mission objective hasn't changed," Carth says stiffly. Then he sighs. "But you're right. We'd better keep a low profile. Find a place to hole up for the time being."

"Sir, that's an apartment complex over there," says Trask, pointing eastward.

"Really?" says Carth. "How do you know?"

Trask shrugs. "I spent a lot of time here as a teenager. My aunt and uncle live nearby, actually."

"Think they might help us?"

He grimaces, fidgeting with his plasteel-armored gauntlet. "I don't know. I mean, they're not exactly Republic loyalists and we haven't spoken in years."

"Point taken. Apartments it is."

Taris, like Coruscant, is almost entirely urbanized. And like Coruscant, there's a definite correlation between affluence and altitude. The skyscrapers lancing into the heavens gleam as dawn approaches; when Sen looks down over the edge of the walkway, she can see the progression from polished to grimy, every layer darker and dirtier. But even here in the upper levels, the cracks are showing. The humans in evidence ignore Sen, Carth, and Trask entirely, but eye the occasional Twi'leks and Ithorians going about their business with a mixture of scorn and disapproval.

Ah, Taris. How she has missed it since the Mandalorian Wars.

They keep to the shadows as the sky blushes pink-orange. Within twenty minutes, the sun is splashing gold light through gaps in the maw of the city, and the apartment building's entrance looms before them. The complex is more or less cylindrical, with a domed top; the outer walls are streaked with stains from acid rain or rust. The double doors don't quite align in the middle. Inside, a quick circuit around the ground floor reveals no empty rooms, so they head to the turbolift.

"Quick question," Trask says. "Are we doing this the legal way, or are we squatting?"

"Unless either of you has a few hundred credits to burn right now, I think we're stuck with squatting. What are the chances we actually find a vacancy here?" says Carth.

"It's pretty run-down. I don't think we'll have much trouble."

And they don't—on the third story, they find an unoccupied, unlocked one-room apartment with a shabby stained sofa that folds out into a bed, a battered old workbench on the far wall, a dusty footlocker, a table, and a few chairs. The windows are wide and generous, but their opacity seems locked on partial translucence. At least it's not a ground-floor room. Sen and Carth check the place for bugs—organic or technological—while Trask digs an ancient datapad out of the footlocker and sets about accessing the holonet.

"Um," he says.

Sen slides out from under the table and stands up. "What's wrong?"

"It's—just look at this." He brings the datapad to the table, taps the news bulletin headline with his forefinger as Carth comes over to peer over their shoulders.

_TARIS UNDER QUARANTINE—SITH DECLARE MARTIAL LAW._

"Fantastic," Carth mutters.

Trask scrolls down—it's the usual conciliatory drivel about cooperation and mutual benefit and compliance, the frantic scrambling of a government under duress attempting to soothe the populace and prevent resistance. Nothing Sen hasn't seen before—

Then she nearly forgets how to breathe.

There's a list of Republic officers from the _Endar Spire_ , paired with their images and descriptions, offering a reward for information on their whereabouts. Carth is third on the list.

Bastila Shan is first. And Sen herself is number two.

She seizes the panic crawling up her spine and kicks it into cold, clear focus. The picture must have been taken sometime after her capture by the Jedi, judging by the dark eyes and the hair length. She is listed as Sen Tethis, not Revan. She probably drew the Sith's attention with her little stunt with Besh on Coruscant. No reason to assume the worst.

She still has a bad feeling about this.

"What now?" says Trask.

"The Sith will be looking for Bastila," says Carth. _Obviously_. Malak won't let an opportunity like this slip past—the Jedi's particular skills make her either a massive liability to have running loose, and thus a target, or a potential asset, if she can be captured and turned. Too much to hope for, perhaps, that Bastila died in the battle. "We'd better get to her first—without being captured ourselves."

Sen walks to the window and looks up into the cloud-scudded sky, Carth and Trask flanking her. High in orbit, Sith frigates move into position to block any and all spacecraft entering or leaving the planet. She can see troop carriers and gunships descending like carrion birds, bringing soldiers and officers and administrators to enforce the quarantine.

"At least we have a roof over our heads," Trask says, almost a question.

Carth sighs. "We'd better take advantage of that. We'll need supplies—food, medpacks, probably weapons too—but the two of you should get some rest, at least."

"Yes, sir."

Another sigh. "I meant it—call me Carth, please," he says. "The less we associate ourselves with the Republic military, the better."

"Yes, s—okay. Carth." Trask wanders over to start wrestling with the sofa-bed's folding mechanism.

"What about you?" asks Sen.

"I'm going to take a look around, talk to people, see if I can get an idea of where Bastila's pod might have crashed."

Sen raises an eyebrow. Carth looks exhausted, his eyes shadowed, his parade-ground posture slipping into weary defeat. "How long have you been on duty?" she says.

He grimaces. "I'll be fine."

"No, you won't; you're not thinking straight. Your face is all over the media. We need to lie low for at least a few hours, give things time to settle down out there. Unless you'd really like to go wandering around while the Sith assert control over the locals . . ." She shrugs lopsidedly, then winces as her shoulder flares with pain anyway.

"Fine, but we can't just leave the apartment unguarded—"

Sen sets the lightsaber on the tabletop with a definitive _click_. "I have actually slept within recent memory. And I have a laser sword. Uninvited houseguests beware."

He holds her gaze for a long moment, as if trying to stare any secrets out of her. She wishes him luck; she doesn't know half of her own. Eventually, he slumps, rubbing at his eyes. "How the hell did this happen?" he says into the palms of his hands.

She doesn't have an answer.

**o.O.o**

They rest in the apartment for the remainder of the day. Carth manages to get a few hours' sleep, however fitful. It's not that he thinks Sen or Trask is going to pull anything, exactly. He just doesn't like being vulnerable around near-total strangers.

The three of them keep an eye on the news broadcasts and take inventory of their current resources. They don't have much—the clothes they're wearing, including Trask's glaringly Republic armor; three blasters, a vibroblade, and the lightsaber; Sen's stealth belt; their datapads, comlinks, and a few computer spikes; and just under one hundred credits between the three of them. Not enough to feed them for more than a few days, at Tarisian prices.

"I remember there's a cantina a few blocks away," Trask says, when the subject comes up. "Should be relatively cheap."

"You mind checking it out?" says Carth.

"I can go now." He stands, then grimaces. "I don't think this getup will go over too well, though."

"Got you covered," Sen says, digging around in the footlocker one-handed and tossing him a slightly faded coat and a ratty tunic. She then turns back to her own datapad, which she's been fiddling with all afternoon—setting things up to prevent any monitors from tracking them if they connect to the holonet.

Trask sheds the armor and pulls on the old clothing. The tunic's a few sizes too large, but it'll divert suspicion. Probably. Trask at least knows Taris, and he's so far down on the watch lists that the chances of anyone recognizing him as Republic out of uniform are slim. Still, Carth itches to get out of this apartment, go _do_ something himself.

Trask pauses before he heads out. "My family here," he says hesitantly. "They're, uh . . . kind of upper-crust. Lots of pull in Tarisian politics. Should I try to get in touch, just in case?"

"Any chance the Sith are watching them?"

"No more than any other powerful Tarisians," says Sen. "They've obviously got the crew manifest for the _Endar Spire_ , but I'd bet they won't care enough about anyone but Bastila, you, me, and the officers to go digging into family history."

Carth flinches. There's at least one Sith who knows every excruciating detail of his _family history_. Including the part where Morgana and Dustil are _dead_ and Telos is gone. There's nothing he can do for them now, nothing at all, but find that son of a schutta Karath and—no. The mission comes first. Stay alive, find Bastila, get her off Taris. Carth drags himself back from the event horizon. "Okay. See if you can contact them, quietly. We need all the help we can get."

Trask excuses himself and heads out, with a bit more grim determination than Carth thinks is strictly necessary for an impending family reunion. Then again, if they had a falling-out . . . He just hopes that they care more about Trask than about cozying up to the Sith.

What all this says about _Trask_ . . . He doesn't think the man's in league with the Sith, but it never hurts to be cautious. He could have been the one to betray them; the Tarisian nobility might actually _want_ the Sith in their system as a convenient way to quell a populace that, if the brief glimpse of the Upper City he's had so far is at all typical, would be justified in resenting their aristocracy—

But that's his paranoia talking, and he knows it. The real threat is still in the room with him.

Sen is watching him with a calculating expression, as if trying to decipher a complicated code. "You never, ever let your guard down, do you?" she says, almost but not quite idly.

"So what if I don't?" Carth says, folding his arms.

She snorts and turns back to the datapads, their innards spilling out onto the tabletop in coiling ropes of colored wire. "I'm not saying you're wrong to be suspicious of people's motives. I'm just curious as to why," she says, hunched over at an awkward angle so that she can use both hands even with the sling.

"Is that really any of your business?"

She pauses in her work, then arches an eyebrow at him. "It is if it becomes a distraction."

"Trust me, sister, I can stay focused," Carth says. "And you're the last person I'd allow to distract me."

Sen laughs darkly.

**o.O.o**

It takes every scrap of confidence Trask's got to just walk out onto the street. He has to force himself not to scurry around—he can't act nervous, can't show the dread crawling over his skin. Already there are squads of Sith troopers stomping up and down the boulevards, stopping groups of people at random. He passes one unfortunate woman with brown hair and blue-grey eyes who looks just enough like Bastila Shan to ping the troopers' radar; she's babbling about her husband and children, visibly shaking. No one dares to speak up or help her.

All this . . . he's not trained for any of this. He's not an infiltrator. He doesn't do sneaky, or subtle, or undercover—he goes where he's told, shoots who he's told, gets as many of his buddies out alive as possible. Always had backup, too—Evi and Olen and the rest, for a long time, but now his only allies can't even step outside without risking everything. And he can't do anything to help the Tarisians as their world is slowly, systematically shut down.

So yeah. He's just a little nervous to be out in the open like this.

He honestly did not expect to survive the battle on the _Endar Spire_. Something about it just felt . . . final, like his entire life was about to converge on one point. And it did, when they opened that door and came face to face with a Dark Jedi. There wasn't much thought involved in his decision to take him on—he's a soldier; that's his job, protecting people—but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all meant to happen. Destiny, or something.

Only it wasn't, apparently, because Sen pulled him back.

He shakes off the lingering unease. Force, he should be _pleased_ to have survived. And he is. But there's a part of him—a large and kind of horrible part—that's mostly just happy to have been on a ship full of relative strangers, rather than one like the _Monument_. If his old squad had been killed . . . Not that there's anything even remotely okay about other people dying instead.

There's nothing even remotely okay about the whole situation. He still has to deal with it, though. He forces himself back to the present—ambling down the street, his footsteps automatically angling him towards the uptown neighborhoods to the northeast. The buildings here aren't as tightly packed, letting the city breathe, and the walkways are outfitted with the occasional balcony strategically placed to give an airy, sweeping view of the gently-curved skyscrapers. Uncle Brant and Aunt Morene always did love their cityscape paintings. It's no wonder they chose to live in one, once they moved off Alderaan.

The front door of their house is set up a short staircase from street level, flanked by round pillars and sunken a bit into the building face. Trask ascends slowly, straightening his too-big jacket and smoothing a hand over his stubbly hair. He squares his shoulders, takes a breath, and hits the buzzer.

He should have commed ahead. Made sure he was still welcome. He did sort of run away to join the Republic military, from their point of view, which was the equivalent of spitting in the faces of generations of Ulgos.

The door's not opening. He buzzes again, and waits another two minutes—still nothing. Sighing in dejection, he turns to leave, and spots a Rodian woman tending to some delicate blue flowers off around the side of the building. A real garden—that was the one thing he enjoyed about staying with Morene and Brant. Living space on Taris is so scarce that a garden, serving no other function than to look pretty, is a tremendous luxury.

"Excuse me," Trask calls out. "Ma'am?"

She whirls around, clutching a sprig of blue flowers trailing roots and dirt clods, and Trask understands. Not a gardener—a thief, looking for something beautiful and alive on a completely urbanized planet. Figures; his aunt and uncle would never hire nonhumans.

"Please, not tell," she whispers in thickly-accented Basic. "Please not to tell!"

"I won't," Trask says, raising his hands slightly in a placating gesture. "It's okay. I just want to know where the family is that lives here."

"Family?" she says. "Ulgos?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Her expression shifts, and while Trask is no expert at Rodian facial expressions, he knows enough to recognize . . . pity? "Very sorry, all gone," she says.

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"You Ulgo?"

"Yes . . ."

"All gone. Sorry. I know not how to say . . ." She draws a hand across her throat, then shrugs helplessly.

Trask stares at her. Clears his throat. He wracks his brains for the Huttese language lessons he'd mostly slept through during school, tries to piece together a coherent thought. "(You say . . . they are dead?)" he asks, voice shaking.

"(Yes,)" says the woman, sounding relieved at the language change, if still wary of him. "(They were killed nearly a month ago. None of the family survived.)"

He could be misinterpreting. He prays he is. "(None? Sure?)"

"(It was all over the news broadcasts,)" she says. "(Gunned down in the streets, poisoned, stabbed . . . I'm sorry.)"

Trask breathes. Tries out the thought like a new uniform that might or might not fit. _My family is dead._ He can't feel anything but disbelief. "(How?)" he rasps.

"(Nobody knows for sure,)" she says, "(but the rumors say it might've been a rival family.)" She glances down, antennae waving. Trask thinks that could be uncertainty. "(There's a . . . a contract out on the assassin who did it,)" she adds, slowly.

Assassins. Another reason why the Republic military was such a relief—he knew who the enemy was. Here, though, anyone could be trying to kill you. And someone did. Someone _murdered his family._ The numb incredulity begins to simmer. "(Who to talk to?)"

"(Zax the Hutt,)" she tells him. "(He runs the bounty office at Javyar's Cantina, in the Lower City.)"

He nods. "Thank you."

**o.O.o**

Bastila groans and lifts her head off the cold ground, wincing as her neck seizes. Evidently, she has been lying here for a while. The Force flows through her to ease the stiffness, and she levers herself up onto hands and knees. The floor's covered in old tile, gritty under her palms; when she looks up, she finds herself in a tiny room, a pile of moldering blankets in one corner, a crude 'fresher in another, a closed door occupying the far wall.

She frowns, and crawls over to the door. No access panel on this side, no controls. She touches the surface and concentrates. Locked.

Rising to her feet—and steadying herself against the door frame—Bastila presses her lips together in thought. She might be able to unlock the door with the Force, but it will take time. And it will all be for nothing if she's observed slipping away. She takes a moment to sweep the immediate area for Force signatures, and grimaces as a multitude of eddies whirl into her mind's eye. An aura of dull hostility suffuses most of them. Lovely.

She stiffens as one of the presences approaches her cell. She backs away from the door, wary.

The door slides open, revealing a painfully thin girl with an uneven fringe obscuring her eyes. Her Force signature is muted and small. She carries a plate with something unidentifiable slopped nearly over the edge.

"Here," the girl says quietly, setting the plate down on the floor and pushing it towards Bastila. There are bruises on her wrists and a shock collar around her neck. She turns to leave.

"Wait—where am I?" Bastila asks, feeling sick.

The girl looks back at her through a stringy curtain of hair. "The Vulkars' base," she says.

"The what?"

"Swoop gang. They found your escape pod and brought you here," the girl says. She hesitates, then says, "Are you with the Republic?"

"I—yes, yes I am," says Bastila.

_Hope_ , painful burning hope, crashes against her mind, then recedes as swiftly as a wave. "They're not coming to save us, are they?" mumbles the girl.

Bastila's heart sinks as the magnitude of what has transpired truly registers. The _Endar Spire_ is gone. Chena, the bridge crew, so many others . . . dead. But some may have survived. She thinks she might feel a wavelet of _fear-frustration-resolve_ through her bond with Revan; it could be her imagination, and she's not sure which is the worse possibility. She prays that Lieutenant Onasi escaped. As to what that uncertainty means—no. There will be no fortuitous rescue, not for her and not for this girl. "Probably not," she says quietly.

The girl nods once and bows her head, backing out of the room. Bastila opens her mouth, too late to give warning—she steps into the broad chest of a man in polished body armor, who clamps a hand down at the back of the girl's neck. She squeaks. He smiles. "Correct," he says, his voice a pleasant tenor. "Hello, my dear. I am Brejik, leader of the Black Vulkars. I'm glad to see you're awake, Jedi."

Bastila very carefully does not react, which is a reaction in and of itself. The man chuckles. "Oh, I know who you are—Bastila Shan, Jedi Padawan, known to the masses as the Hope of the Republic. And, of course, Taris's most wanted. The Sith have put a rather staggering price on your head."

"Am I to assume you intend to turn me in, then?" Bastila says, clasping her hands behind her back and squaring her shoulders. Swoop gangs are one thing, but the Sith—if they take her—

"Not yet." Brejik flashes another brilliant smile. "A word of caution, though: if you cross me, if you try to escape, you won't like the consequences."

"I think you underestimate the—"

"Let me put it another way. If you try to escape, I'll kill little Marrel here. You'll note her collar—it can deliver a lethal shock at the press of a button. Or at the slightest hint of tampering. I hear that Jedi are a bit squeamish about collateral damage. Do we understand each other, Bastila?"

She looks at Marrel, trying to convey reassurance. "Yes."

"Good. I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	11. Getaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Let's do this.

_In which Bastila has another bad day._

**o.O.o**

Trask returns around dusk, carrying a bag of food and looking more than a little shell-shocked to Carth's eye. Sen abandons the datapad she's been tinkering with and stands up, frowning in concern. "You okay?" she says.

Trask sets the bag down on the table. "I looked up my aunt and uncle," he says dully. "They're dead."

Carth hates this war. He hates the Sith. Haven't people lost enough already? "I'm sorry," he says. "The Sith are animals—"

"It wasn't the Sith. 'Least, it happened before the invasion." Trask rubs at his reddened, puffy eyes. "Think it was a rival family from back home. I mean, I never thought they'd try something this extreme, but— _shit_." He laughs weakly and sniffs hard. "Gods, I didn't even like them all that much and we have more important things to worry about . . . Sorry." Straightening, he puts on a clearly pained smile. "I'll be fit for duty, sir."

"They were your family," Carth says. "You don't need to apologize for feeling loss."

"And, well, you brought dinner, so you're obviously fairly functional," Sen says.

It's probably meant as a joke, Carth knows. It's probably meant to lighten the mood. It still raises his hackles to see Sen being this . . . callous.

But Trask gives another broken-sounding laugh and waves a hand at the bag. "Fill your boots," he mumbles.

**o.O.o**

To Bastila's relief, the Vulkars leave her alone throughout the night, giving her the peace and quiet she needs to formulate an escape plan. For whatever reason, Brejik has decided to wait to turn her over to the Sith—but she cannot afford to delay, as he might change his mind at any moment. Add in the complication presented by Marrel, and she has her work cut out for her.

Part of her wonders, coldly, if perhaps it might be better to simply make her escape without hte girl. It would certainly be easier that way. And—and is her own life not vastly more valuable to the Republic than that of some Force-null slave girl? Isn't that why Chena sacrificed herself aboard the _Endar Spire_?

Why should Bastila put her life at risk for the sake of complete stranger when someone who was almost—who _could have been_ —a friend, had to die?

Bastila scowls to herself. No. She will not use her grief as an excuse for cruelty or apathy. She will do what Chena would have wanted, what Master Owyn would have wanted—she will do what is right, even if it is difficult.

All life is sacred, whether it's that of a Jedi Knight, a Sith Lord, or a frightened child.

Besides which, if she does not help Marrel, who will?

(She could not save Daen Owyn, and she could not save Iylos, and she could not save Chena. No more.)

As the dark hours crawl towards dawn, Bastila casts out her senses, getting a feel for the currents of the Force in this place. She believes she's far underground, though she can sense those awful ravenous _things_ somewhere below, as well as a hazy distant ocean of thoughts far above. Her immediate surroundings remain polluted by petty avarice and violence.

She can work with this. Greedy, grubby little minds are among the simplest to manipulate.

Marrel returns early in the morning, bearing another tray of prison slop. Bastila catches her eye as she turns to leave and gestures for Marrel to stay; the girl hovers, casting an uncertain glance at the guard outside the cell.

Bastila rises gracefully to her feet and glides towards the open cell door. The guard, a whipcord-thin Rodian with an absurdly large blaster pistol, glares at her around the corner. "(Don't make me shoot you, Jedi,)" he says.

"We're just having a friendly conversation," Bastila says calmly, putting gentle pressure on his mind to soothe and lull him.

"(You're . . . you're just having a friendly conversation,)" he echoes.

Marrel's eyes go wide under her flossy fringe.

Bastila smiles. "That," she says, "is how we're going to escape this place."

Marrel gapes for a moment. Then she whispers, "You mean it? You'll really get me out?"

"You will be free. My word as a Jedi."

Hope rekindles in her eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

**o.O.o**

Sen heads out of the apartment just in time for some judicious people-watching, perching atop a storage container near the door with an excellent view of the elevator. As people leave their homes to go to work, they by necessity must pass her—humans, yes, in various states of wakefulness and hygiene, but also a group of Ithorians, two Duros, a Twi'lek. From what she remembers of Taris, that's unusual, the upper levels generally restricted to humans alone.

Most of the passers-by ignore her, but as the flow of people tapers off, she's left in the hallway with an elderly human pushing a floor cleaner along and humming to himself, and the Twi'lek man, who has parked himself on the other side of the elevator doors and set up a stall displaying various odds and ends—tech parts, mostly, with a few articles of clothing and prepackaged snacks stacked neatly nearby. A few of the residents have stopped by his stall on their way out.

Sen stands up, strides forward, and goes to introduce herself to them. Maybe not _introduce_ , she never actually gives her name, but she certainly gets theirs, and some other useful information.

The janitor, she discovers, is called Kadir. He's friendly enough, willing to pass on the local gossip at the slightest prompting and clearly concerned for the welfare of total strangers. "You should head on down to Dr. Zelka Forn's clinic," he says with a glance at her shoulder. "He'll patch up just about anyone as comes in looking for help, Upper or Lower City, and he don't charge a credit."

Directions tapped into her datapad, Sen hesitates. "Kadir—"

"I ain't saying a word to the landlord or the Sith about you and your friends," he says. Then he scowls, jabbing a threatening finger at her. "But if you make a mess of my floors they'll be on you like stink on a rancor, got it?"

". . . Understood." At least his priorities are clear.

Larrim, the Twi'lek merchant, is much cagier around her, casting darting glances at her without ever quite making eye contact. And when Carth and Trask emerge from the apartment a few minutes later, Larrim's expression goes thoughtful and shrewd.

"(I hear the Republic base has fallen,)" he says in conspiratorial tones.

"Should we care?" Carth says, a little too nonchalant to be entirely convincing.

Larrim shrugs. "(Just thought it was the kind of thing you might want to know . . . Lieutenant.)"

Carth stiffens, Trask twitches, and Sen leans forward, showing teeth. "Is there a point to this?" she says.

"(Watch yourselves,)" Larrim says. "(I can't be the only one to have noticed your unexpected arrival, and others may not be so altruistic as to remain quiet—)"

"If you think we're just going to let you walk up to the Sith and—" Carth starts.

Larrim snorts. "(Did I say altruistic? I meant having slightly more self-preservation instinct than a drunken, concussed rock slug. You may have noticed that this isn't exactly a wealthy area. Or an entirely _human_ one. We don't want trouble from the nobles, or from the Sith.)"

"Why talk to us, then?" asks Sen.

"(Because I remember the Mandalorian Wars. I remember what Republic soldiers did for us, then, and what Taris made of the opportunity. You gave us a chance and those in power wasted it. Don't waste—)"

Blasterfire. Shouting. Sen's hand drops automatically to her side, where a lightsaber hilt should be. Her fingertips meet only air. She switches sides and checks the vibroblade. "Is this normal?" she says quietly.

Larrim looks tense. "(No . . .)"

"Because those sound an awful lot like Sith guns," Sen continues.

Carth and Trask have both gone on-edge, weight shifting, stances changing in preparation to fight or flee. Larrim begins to sidle away from the trio of fugitives. "(Ah. Of course we would be a perfect location for certain Republic personnel to hide in, wouldn't we . . . And the Sith would know it.)"

"Is there some way out besides the front door?" says Carth.

"(A side entrance, little-used by the residents—I believe Kadir is the only one who uses it with any regularity.)"

"Where?"

Larrim jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "(Take the service elevator from the third floor down to the first sub-basement. Follow the down signs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an arrest to avoid.)"

"Thanks," Carth calls after him as he vanishes around the hallway ring.

"Well, the Sith sure are moving fast," Trask mutters. "We should probably go . . ."

"Better grab what gear we can," says Carth. "I doubt it'll be easy to find anything on this planet."

They duck back into the partment and set about stuffing the rucksack with supplies. Carth slings it over his shoulder, nods decisively, and says, "Let's go."

He makes as if to walk out the door, then stops dead on the threshold as a voice shouts, "Up against the wall! Now!"

Sen hits the activator on her stealth field generator and draws her blaster as Carth and Trask, caught in the Sith trooper's line of sight, slowly move to obey. She peers around the door frame. One human soldier, three war droids, all armed with blaster rifles. Civilians standing with their hands up and their faces to the walls of the corridor. A pair of Duros—one gesturing angrily at the Sith trooper, the other trying to pull him back as he says, "(We've done nothing wrong, why are you harrassing us, you have no right—)"

The trooper shoots the Duros dead. His friend makes an anguished noise but doesn't resist as a war droid shoves him into the wall.

"You bastards," Carth growls.

"Why, hello, there, Lieutenant Onasi," says the trooper.

"Wow, didn't realize I was so popular with you people . . ."

"Lord Malak will surely commend me for your successful capture," the trooper sneers. Fantastic. A gloater. Sen does love it when enemies waste time talking about how victorious they're about to be.

(She remembers . . . something about putting a limit on melodrama, and Malak laughing—)

She moves into position, using the door frame as partial cover. _Here and now._

Sen takes aim at the first war droid and opens fire.

**o.O.o**

The midday meal brings an ideal opportunity to put her plan into motion. Bastila waits for Marrel to return, awareness extended, almost in a Battle Meditation trance as she prepares herself mentally for the challenge ahead.

Then the cell door hisses open. "Master Jedi," Marrel says, her voice shaking. To the guard outside, Marrel likely seems her usual brand of terrified. No indication that her nerves are for an entirely different reason now.

Bastila accepts the tray, then drops it with a cry. She allows her knees to fold and brings her hands up to clutch at her temples. "I—no! NO!" she shrieks.

The guard rounds on them as Marrel backs away, wringing her hands in a convincing imitation of stark terror. "What the hell is wrong with you, Jedi?" she demands, stalking into the cell to poke Bastila's head with her rifle.

Bastila smacks the barrel away with the flat of her palm. She surges upright, ramming the guard's nose with her skull, and reaches out with the Force to shove down any thought of resistance in her mind. The guard goes limp, face slack and empty of expression, and Bastila relieves her of her weapon before settling her in the corner of the cell nearest the door.

"Stay close," she tells Marrel, handing the girl the blaster.

"Okay," Marrel whispers.

Bastila exhales and clears her mind once more. This is not quite Battle Meditation, in that she has no intention of altering anyone's emotional state. But she does need to affect many minds simultaneously, alter their perceptions, smudge their awareness of her and Marrel's presences. It's not true invisibility—just an impression of vagueness, utterly unremarkable, not worth pursuing or thinking overmuch about. Somebody else's problem.

They creep out of the cell and round the corner, silent and slow. And for a time, nothing disturbs their progress. Marrel leads the way through the unfamiliar complex. Most of the Vulkars seem to be out of the base running errands at this time of day.

Most, but not all.

A group of humans in battered body armor blocks the doorway into the main room of the complex. Their backs are to Bastila and Marrel and they're busy chatting amongst themselves, but they're arranged too closely to sneak past without having to go between them. Bastila can feel the sweat gathering at her hairline, crawling down her temples. She meets Marrel's eyes as the girl glances back at her, frightened; she nods to Marrel and takes the lead.

Step by step they approach the Vulkars. Bastila raises a hand, gestures gently. _Over there,_ she presses into their thoughts, careful and quiet. _Isn't it interesting on the other side of the room? Maybe you should take a look._

For a moment, the Vulkars waver. Then one of them takes a step away from the doorway. And with that, one by one, they drift off, still engrossed in their conversation.

Bastila allows herself a tight, triumphant smile, and gestures for Marrel to lead on once more.

Out of the hallway, into the main room. Skirting the armory, lurking just outside a security droid's line of sight as it picks its way across the chamber—then deeper into the base, down a sloped corridor to a room protected by a reinforced blast door.

Brejik's office, where, hopefully, he keeps the remote to Marrel's shock collar.

This is where things become dangerous. Well—more dangerous. There's really no way to open the door without a key card that doesn't involve a certain amount of noise and property damage, not without a talented slicer on hand. Bastila glances up and down the corridor. It's clear—she sinks ever deeper into the Force, lets her awareness drift through the door mechanisms— _there_.

She glances at Marrel. "Ready?" she says softly.

The girl sets her jaw, eyes hard. "Ready."

Metal screams against metal as Bastila tears the upper and lower segments of the blast door apart.

And then an alarm begins to howl.

**o.O.o**

Sen keeps squeezing the trigger until the first war droid goes down in a heap of sparks and scorched durasteel. The Sith trooper and the other two droids whirl and open fire into the apartment but she's already darting in the hallway with them, stealth belt giving her a few precious seconds of maneuverability before the droids lock onto her.

She blasts one in the midsection. It lurches sideways as its stabilizers give out, falls into the other droid, fouls its aim. As they stagger and the trooper swings his rifle around, she jinks sideways—he overshoots, can't correct fast enough to prevent her from unloading another salvo into his chest and gut.

The remaining droid recovers, straightens—and gets a faceful of plasma for its trouble.

Sen slowly lowers her blaster pistol. She hasn't felt this—this _steady_ since the _Crusader_. Carth, Trask, and the Duros are staring at her. Well, at the smudgey blur of her silhouette. She holsters the weapon and deactivates her stealth belt. "Everybody all right?"

"My hero," Trask says faintly.

"(We should hide the droids and the . . . bodies,)" the surviving Duros says, voice shaking a little.

The four of them haul the evidence of the battle out of sight—once they're all piled inside the apartment, Sen kneels beside the trooper's corpse and goes through his pockets. It's not like he's going to be using his credits anymore. Blaster rifle could be useful, but it isn't subtle, and it might draw more attention than it discourages. She stuffs the credits into her jacket and stands up again.

She considers for a moment, then starts blasting the droids' heads to slag. The Duros jumps, and Carth and Trask round on her, startled. She shrugs. "Last thing we need is for the Sith to salvage their memory cores."

"Will you be all right?" Trask asks the Duros.

"(I—I think so . . .)" He takes a deep breath. "(Yes. Good luck.)" He vanishes out the door.

"We have to get out of here, fast. The Sith will send more troops to investigate once these guys don't report in," says Carth.

"They're already crawling all over the Upper City. I don't think we can stay up here much longer without getting caught."

"Then we lie a little lower," says Sen. "Let's go."

**o.O.o**

Bastila and Marrel duck into Brejik's office as the howling alarm echoes up and down the corridor. "Where would he keep the remote?" Bastila says urgently.

"I—I don't know, maybe in the desk—"

Bastila starts tearing through the drawers and cabinets, all too aware of the approaching Vulkars—too far away to hear, even without the noise, but close enough to sense. They have less than a minute before they arrive, and though the office isn't large, there are any number of places Brejik might be hiding Marrel's leash. The girl's growing panic gnaws at Bastila's mind—or perhaps that's her own fear threatening to overwhelm her.

She closes her eyes for a few precious seconds. Breathes. _There is no emotion, there is peace._

And in the shaky calm she manages to achieve, the Force gives a sense of—emptiness. Absence.

Bastila opens her eyes, looks at Marrel, stricken. "It's not here."

"What?" Marrel says, voice climbing high. "How—how do you know, it has to be, it _has_ to be—"

"He must keep it with him," Bastila says softly.

"But— _aaaah!_ " Marrel shrieks as the shock collar crackles, a jolt of electricity surging over her limbs. She collapses, twitching, whimpering.

Bastila drops the cell guard's blaster and catches her, winces as her hands and arms prickle with static. She—she has to get Marrel out of here, they're cornered in this room and—and if Brejik has the remote and is within range to use it then he must be very, very close—

She scoops Marrel up in her arms, letting the Force flow down her limbs, augmenting her strength. She can't keep this up for long, but—she has to try. Bastila starts running, her semiconscious burden's head lolling and bouncing against her shoulder with every stride. Back the way they came—she remembers seeing a hall just off the main chamber that might lead to an exit, and if she can reach it, they might have a chance.

She runs straight into half a dozen Vulkars. Without missing a step, she snarls and _pushes_. A near-explosive wave scatters the gangsters, leaves her way clear. She keeps running. The wide main room swallows her, painfully exposed—Vulkars are pouring out of every door leading into it and the ones behind her could recover any moment. Some take aim with their blasters, others charge towards her with their crackling stun batons.

 _Fools,_ she thinks distantly, without quite knowing why until she's already _acting_.

The Force sings through her, clearer and deeper than she has ever felt. Battle Meditation has never come so easily before. She melts into the Vulkars' minds and gives a tug _here_ , a nudge _there_ , twists perception and reflex _just so_ —

The blaster wielders open fire before the ones with stun batons reach her. Bolts shriek past her and Marrel—a concussive crossfire that leaves them unscathed but mows down charging melee fighters and confused shooters across the room alike. The remainder continue firing wildly but can't seem to land a hit on anyone but their compatriots.

And it's . . . exhilarating. Intoxicating, despite or even because of her fear. Past the adrenaline and the worry and the dread, like a crack in a dam, something terribly powerful strains to burst free.

Powerful, and dark—

Bastila gasps and wrenches herself out of the heady trance. She stumbles under Marrel's weight. There are mercifully few Vulkars left standing but without her influence they regain their senses, their shots coming dangerously close. She forces herself to keep going. What she wouldn't give for her lightsaber—

Marrel's shock collar crackles again. They both spasm; Bastila drops with a cry, falls badly trying not to let Marrel's head hit the floor.

"Hold fire."

Footsteps. A pair of boots come to a halt just inside her wavering field of vision. Bastila looks up. Brejik shakes his head at her, condescending, collar remote in hand, thumb poised above the activator. "I told you what would happen if you tried to escape," he says.

She can't regain her focus to reach for the Force. All she can do is glare up at him and clutch at Marrel and—ah.

Marrel is still alive, slowly recovering, and Brejik will not kill her. Not as long as Bastila can still be controlled by the threat of her death.

So . . . what? What can she do, unarmed and alone and outnumbered, too unbalanced to pull another Force trick, besides surrender?

 _No._ She will not let these—these two-bit gangsters, these _nobodies_ , be what ends her.

She lifts her head. Summons the memory of a cold rage and a colder smile, black ice and dead stars. She sets Marrel down, not too gently, inwardly apologizing. But she needs the thump of bony flesh on gritty concrete for punctuation as she stands once more and stares Brejik down, Revan's cruel smile now her own mask to wear.

"Tell me, Brejik," she says, "what did you think would happen if you _did_ kill her? What would then prevent me from utterly destroying each and every one of you?"

He laughs, high and nasal. "You could barely hold your own against a few of my men. You don't intimidate me, girl."

Revan's smile widens on her face, revealing a few more teeth. Bastila says, calmly, "The Jedi path is one of self-denial. We are not meant to relish slaughter, and some would say this holds us back, makes us weak. But the most dangerous Jedi of all is one with nothing left to lose. Do you really want to be the one for whom I cast aside the Code, all those rules and strictures? Do you honestly believe that I would not?"

A flicker of unease. Not much, but enough to work with. Behind her mask, Bastila can steady herself and refocus upon that flicker, tease it into a spark. Brejik blinks once, twice. "You're bluffing."

"Am I," Bastila breathes. "Brejik, Brejik, Brejik. You do _not_ want to see a Jedi fall."

And in the split second of Brejik's hesitation, she extends a thread of thought to the remote in his hand and wrenches it free. It thunks into her palm. She presses the release button and tugs Marrel to her feet before Brejik can do more than draw breath to shout.

"Go!" she says, lashing out with a wave of the Force to knock down the Vulkars between them and the door.

"GET THEM!"

They run. Marrel's breaths come in great whooping sobs. The shock collar peels loose from her bony neck, jarred by their strides, and clatters to the ground. The main door is so close, they're _so close_ —

The stun bolt hits her square in the back. Bastila chokes with the pain of it and drops to her hands and knees, skidding a few painful inches, leaving her palms raw. Marrel realizes she's fallen behind, slows, looking back.

"GO!" Bastila screams. "Just go, _go!_ "

Marrel hesitates, but turns and flees, smacking the blast door's access panel and slipping through the crack before it can groan fully open. Bastila grunts as a Vulkar tackles her from behind and begins dragging her backward. She grits her teeth. Reaches out one last time. The door mechanism shimmers bright and electric in her awareness. She _rips_ at it, and it jams, too narrow a gap for anyone in the Vulkars' full body armor to pass.

By then, it's too late to do more than writhe and claw at her assailant. Assailants. Two of them, pinning her down as a third presses a stun baton to her side and activates it.

Bastila's vision greys out, then goes dark.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


End file.
